The Science of It All
by Provocative Envy
Summary: COMPLETE: That clutching, awful, cold, hot, flashing, clawing, cluttering sensation curling its way through my stomach, tearing its way down my vertebrae, winding and trailing and ending up somewhere in my throat. HG/DM.
1. I

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER ONE**

When I was eleven years old, I discovered magic.

From a practical point, it made sense to me; I'd never been quite normal, never been able to conform to the strictest of societal standards—those of my peers, the prepubescent hierarchy baffling me even as it shunned me. When my parents would take me to church on Sundays, I'd look around at all the nice, average, happy people on their knees, reveling in moralistic ambiguity, and wonder to myself if they were in that subservient position because they wanted to be—or had simply tripped, fallen, the dictums of the world as they saw it preventing them from standing on their own. I learned about witchcraft in school, of course, learned about it through the cynical eyes of historians with too little faith in the unrealistic; I learned about the heretics, the witch-hunts, the multiplicity of fantasy melded with the possibility of fact that lay dormant in fables and fairytales and legends.

I was too analytical to be judged as different in the creative sense of the word; I was too awkwardly shy to be judged as different in the outspoken, socially detrimental way. There was simply something off about me, something curious in my demeanor, my gait, my gaze—my parents encouraged my intellectual integrity, my thirst for knowledge, the directness with which I purveyed my inquiries. The conclusion was drawn that nothing was wrong with me, exactly; I was just advanced for my age. And everyone accepted this explanation, and stopped asking me why I read so very much, and how it was that I absorbed information so readily, so easily.

And then, on a rainy day in late July, I chanced a glance out the window of my bedroom, hairbrush in hand, and smiled tentatively at the barn owl pecking at the glass. It took me mere moments to notice the letter tied to its leg—astonishment warred with the thrill of anticipation, expectation, a slow but sure realization that the ordinary-looking owl outside was searching for me. As if in a daze, I unlatched the window, letting the bird beat its wings and hold out its leg. Tentatively, hesitantly, unbelievingly, I untied the thick, parchment envelope from its skinny ankle. Within moments it had pecked at my fingertips and flown off, and I was left at an open window, rain soaking my wrists, a letter addressed to me, to my bedroom to be exact, in my hand.

And then everything was explained, everything made sense, and my love of rationality, reason, logic, was born.

I scoffed at ignorance, preened in my pretention, regained confidence in my uniqueness—everything that had been robbed by my unfortunate, lonely childhood returned with a vengeance, and when my parents' initial skepticism was replaced by wholehearted, confused support, I took on an entirely new identity. Hermione Granger, silently solemn—but brilliant—daughter of dentists, was special.

It took a long time after I arrived at Hogwarts to acknowledge, begrudgingly, that in a school of people who possessed the exact same talents as I did, I wasn't nearly as special as I wanted—needed—to be. In fact, the prejudice against me for being new to their world, to their heritage, was overwhelming; I began to wish that I'd never seen that owl, that I'd never had the impetuous temerity to open a window in the rain.

Draco Malfoy, an ethereally pale paradigm of my nightmare, was my singular introduction to this world of magic and marvels that had seemed like such a perfect escape from my real-life imperfections. After my parents had kissed me goodbye, after I'd loaded my luggage onto the steaming scarlet train, after I'd located an empty compartment and sat down—he and his hulking, idiot friends had opened the door, looked me up and down, and demanded to know if I was of Muggle parentage.

Thinking that my inconspicuous lineage would be impressive, would be a showcase of exactly how much I belonged, brand me worthy, I replied in the affirmative, eagerly, agreeably.

"So, you're a mudblood…well, you won't last long," he'd said in response, his lips curling, his lackeys' deaf-dumb laughter echoing in my fragile, naïve ears.

"What do you mean?" I'd asked, bewildered, unsure if I should be hurt, appalled, or angry.

He stared at me as if I was stupid before throwing his head back and laughing. Even in my hopeful, optimistic state I could recognize unfriendliness when it confronted me so blatantly.

"You don't _know_? You're only on this train because the Headmaster's a senile, sympathetic old fool. You don't really _belong_ here. You're a charity case. My father says the lot of you should be gone within the year, if he has anything to say about it," he informed me, his tone supercilious, condescending—cruel, really.

Luckily, he decided I wasn't worth the hassle any longer and set off to find more worthy companions, leaving me shaken and alone. I had read, of course, about this strange and backwards prejudice that pure-blooded wizard families had against people like myself; but I hadn't believed, hadn't let myself believe, that it still existed, especially not in such an arrestingly potent form.

But Draco Malfoy, I told myself, was just one boy. Surely other people thought differently. Surely I wouldn't be as alone at Hogwarts, that remote, fantastical castle, as I had been at home.

And so I set my jaw, determination and desperation infiltrating my personality to such a degree that I was sure I came off as far more domineering and conceited than I was in actuality. But I'd been right, most people were nice, most people were like me, most people didn't judge me quite so harshly for a parentage I really couldn't have helped.

Over the years, I learned how to handle Draco Malfoy's spite.

He never let me forget who I was and what I was; he never missed an opportunity to exploit my one and only weakness. I learned how to respond in kind, how to use sarcasm and wittiness and my wealth of unadulterated, unfiltered rage at his defects—namely, his scorn for me—to verbally disarm him. Our battles increased in frequency and hostility as we grew older.

By the time we reached our last, final year together, we'd reached a standstill.

There was nothing we hadn't said to each other, nothing we'd bothered to hold back, nothing new to torment the other with. By October, we'd stopped acknowledging each other altogether, our boredom with the other's presence palpable in the narrow stone corridors. By November, glares were barely even exchanged, our lives colliding so rarely that there seemed little point in continuing a war that had never been properly started.

Which was why I was so surprised when he sat down across from me in the library in early December, a malicious smirk in place.

"Yes?" I asked tightly, more irritated by his interruption than by him.

"Granger. Mudblood. It's been…awhile," he remarked casually, caustically. My spine stiffened at his tone.

"Malfoy. I'd call you something more derogatory, but I can't think of any terms that do your depravity justice," I responded wryly, watching his face.

"Justice is such an outdated concept, Granger. I'm surprised you're not investing yourself in something more innovative," he replied, sarcasm a thin veil for his not-so-subtle reference to our respective birthrights. He wasn't a stranger to irony.

"Incest is outdated too, Malfoy, but that doesn't seem to stop your family, does it?" I pointed out, smiling humorlessly.

"Someone's feeling open-minded today," he commented, inspecting his fingernails.

"Quit playing the hypocrite for five seconds, Malfoy. What do you want?" I demanded.

"Nothing." He paused, waiting a few moments before catching my furious gaze and saying, "Nothing now, that is. I happen to know that something that might interest you is happening tonight, midnight, in the Astronomy Tower, though."

I stared at him, dumbfounded, incredulous, and immediately suspicious.

"Interest me?" I repeated, arching my eyebrows. "In what way? The way that your father's incarceration interests me, or the way Filch's detentions interest me?"

His face twitched—a restrained flinch.

"Just be there. I promise you won't be disappointed. Or maybe you will be—who really knows?" he called back over his shoulder as he walked away.

Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to my homework, dismissing him and his obvious attempt at a prank. Did he really think I was that stupid? Midnight? The Astronomy Tower? Almost instantaneously, I realized that no, no he didn't think I was that stupid. So what was he really playing at? If he knew I wouldn't show?

Well, maybe I would show. Just to see.

It couldn't hurt.


	2. II

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: This is an addiction, I think. A cure for insomnia, if you will. I can't help myself. It's getting ridiculous. However, I just thought I should let anyone know who's interested two things.

1) I probably won't be finishing "Lightning" anytime soon. I lost my trail of thought with it. Consider it a hiatus more than anything else. I will definitely be updating this story, though. I know it looks a lot like "By the Way" right now, but it won't be. I promise. And…

2) I got an agent. For any of you who expressed an interest at one point or another in my serious writing, and are aware of my (feeble) attempts at getting something (oh, like a novel?) published, I just thought I should let you know that if things go the way it's looking they will, my debut novel will be in bookstores (hopefully!) by the summer of 2009. The current title of it is "Up, Up, Not Away," but depending on what PR people say and all of that it might change. I feel so awful blatantly plugging my own stuff on this site, but I just remember getting a lot of requests for my penname and all that. I haven't picked one yet, actually, so I can't offer that, but if like a year and a half from now you happen to remember that title…I'd be appreciative if you checked it out. Thanks!

**CHAPTER TWO**

Except it did hurt.

It hurt more than I expected, and more than I ever thought it would, and more than I'd ever been able to imagine. It hurt the way that paper-cuts don't—it wasn't irritating and sharp, it was deep and dull and deafening. It wormed its way through my head, making pit stops, pitfalls, at every single synapse that connected me to my emotions, to myself; every neuron was on fire with the knowledge that I'd never wanted, the only kind I'd ever been able to reject.

It hurt because it was him, and it was her, and it wasn't me. It hurt because seeing them together compounded my loneliness to such a degree that I needed, wanted, had to shiver at the thought of forever being a voyeur of other people's happiness. It hurt because it was the end of my childhood, the end of my innocence, and the end of my optimism. It hurt because I was confronting honesty in all its overrated, ostentatious glory, complete with shy smiles and wistful whispers. It hurt because the boy I'd spent seven years pining for, arguing with, desperately wanting—didn't want me back.

I'd lost my chance, and here was the proof.

I'd given him up for the sake of my perception of maturity, and this was the result: That clutching, awful, cold, hot, flashing, clawing, cluttering sensation curling its way through my stomach, tearing its way down my vertebrae, winding and trailing and ending up somewhere in my throat.

By the time I realized my eyes were burning, full, practically shut, he'd arrived.

"I told you you'd find something interesting here, Granger," he remarked softly, horribly.

I opened my mouth, worked my jaw muscles, tried so hard to formulate a sentence, a retort, an excuse.

I failed.

"What? What's wrong? You aren't—you're not _crying_, are you?" he asked, his transparent delight cheapening my heartbreak, diluting my epiphany.

"Isn't this what you wanted, though? Isn't it what you expected?" I burst out, my voice shrill, odd, muffled in the darkness.

"Not even I dreamed you'd be reduced to tears. How…feminine."

"How…superbly evil of you to point them out," I replied, rubbing a hand across my eyes and taking a fortifying breath.

If I could just keep it together long enough, if I could just pretend things were okay, would be okay, I could escape.

"Evil?" he repeated, pursing his lips. "No, no. Far too elegant. Not nearly spiteful enough. Try harder."

"Try harder," I snorted, turning away from him, my shoulders stiff. "You're not exactly worth the effort, Malfoy."

"Oh? Then why won't you just cry like you want to, Granger? Why hide it? Why pretend it's not happening? Look where denial got you with Weasley," he pointed out, smirking.

I flinched, swallowed, held my posture still and perfect and straight as I turned around, slowly, to face him.

"Because I hate you. And I would rather watch this scene every day for the rest of my life then let you see me like that," I responded, gritting my teeth and meeting his unprepossessing gaze.

His eyes, gray and blue and icy, were pitiless, shallow, void of anything but contempt, scorn, and surly satisfaction. The distance between our bodies seemed to lengthen, grow, multiply at an unrealistic, exponential rate; if I had let out the breath I was holding, I'm sure it could have materialized, misted, in the throes of the frosty, gaping chasm that loomed between us.

"Clearly, it's mutual," he shrugged nonchalantly.

There it was, that sense of a stalemate, a tie, a game of tug-of-war gone wrong: We were both stuck, heels dug in, at the edge of the line, slack rope in hand, waiting impatiently for the other to budge.

"What—Hermione? Is that you? What are you doing here?" Ron's voice—shocked, confused, guilty, a million other adjectives I refused to dwell on—interrupted our silent battle. We'd been so fixated on each other, on exploiting each other's weaknesses, that we hadn't heard the footsteps, and now it was too late to act like I hadn't known, too late to act like I wasn't a wreck. Too late, too late, always too late.

"I…I was just taking a walk," I answered lamely, my cheeks warm.

"A walk?" he repeated incredulously, taking in the fact that it was well after midnight and I was still wearing jeans and a sweater.

"Yes."

"With Malfoy?"

It was then that I realized Malfoy had left, walked away, just disappeared as soon as he heard another voice, leaving me to clean up his mess. No one had stopped him.

"He followed me," I mumbled, wishing I could vanish just as suddenly and just as swiftly as he had.

"Oh," Ron replied.

And then the awkwardness of the situation settled like a thick cloud of dust in the corridor, any quick movement, any breathing, even, kicking up little spindrifts of irritating allergens, causing my skin to itch uncomfortably.

"I…I just needed to get away for a bit," I tried explaining again, tried ignoring the conspicuous presence whose hand was latched firmly in the crook of his arm.

"You should really get more sleep, Hermione," she cooed. "It can't be good for you to study like you do and not sleep. That's why you've got bags under your eyes, silly!"

It was like a slap in the face, being reprimanded by a superficial, dim-witted twit whose only ambitions in life were to get married and keep her skin clear.

"Right, Lavender. Of course you're right. I'm just…anxious, I suppose. But I'm actually exhausted, think I'm just going to head in now, turn in for the night, you know? G'night," I replied, my words coming out in a complicated rush of embarrassment and shame.

He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, alleviate the strange seriousness of my departure, smooth the encounter over. But unlike Lavender's complexion, the scene remained rough, bumpy, unpleasant.

And then I left, and no one stopped me, just like no one had stopped Malfoy.

In that, too, we were equals it seemed.


	3. III

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER THREE**

The next day, I was sitting cross-legged on the grass in front of the castle, bundled up in a wool coat and gloves, wanting it to be Christmas.

I wanted it to be Christmas more than I'd ever wanted anything leading up to that moment—I wanted to be snuggled in front of a fire with a cup of eggnog, laughing at my mother's attempts to sing Christmas carols; I wanted to be five years old again, anticipating Christmas morning with the kind of innocent fervor only found in very young children and imbeciles; I wanted to be loved, unconditionally, by my parents; I wanted their love to fill the empty hole in my heart, even though I knew I couldn't, even though I knew I wasn't five years old anymore, even though I knew that I had grown up, grown past, grown through the stage of my life where my parents were capable of making things better.

I wanted so very badly to pretend that everything could go back to normal, to a rough approximation of okay, that I didn't hear his footsteps, didn't have a chance to get up and act like I had somewhere else to be.

"Hermione?" he asked timidly, his voice cracking on those three easy syllables. 

"Hi, Ron," I replied, staring straight ahead at the vast, bleak surface of the lake. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he sat down next to me, settling his long limbs with a sheepish expression on his face—blood pounded through my skull, into my brain, replacing my steadily depleting supply of oxygen—I really couldn't breathe, couldn't handle this, not now, especially not now.

"So…are you okay? I mean, with me and Lavender? Because I got the, um, impression last night that maybe you…weren't?" He ended his question as a question, an inauspicious beginning to the conversation. I grimaced inwardly.

"I'm fine," I said flatly.

"I didn't…" he trailed off, his mouth turned down at the corners, and I ached for him to finish his sentence—did he not…know? Think? Want? Believe? _What?_

"Yes?" I asked, biting my lip.

"I didn't realize," he mumbled, his cheeks reddening. 

My stomach plummeted; my palms grew damp; my head began to hurt, spin, hurt, spin, I couldn't tell, couldn't decide, couldn't begin to care which adjective was more accurate.

"Didn't realize," I repeated dully.

"Hermione…if I'd known…" he shook his head.

"Known what, exactly?" I asked, my voice overloud.

"That you, you know…had feelings for me," he said awkwardly, glancing sideways at me to gauge my reaction.

I quirked my lips, swallowing back tears, and stood up.

"I never meant for you to know, so let's just put it behind us, okay?" I answered quietly, the truth in my words registering before he had a chance to react to them.

Had I really never meant for him to know? Had I really planned to never tell him? I was amazed, astonished, appalled, angry—there was something terrible about knowing the extent of your own weakness.

He didn't say anything, just looked at me, wide-eyed and guilty, and I realized that if I didn't walk away right now, he'd understand what was going on. And I couldn't let him.

I turned on my heel, ignoring his half-hearted protest, and trudged back to the castle, my arms folded across my chest, my face tense, my body rigid; I was so intent on staying still, completely and utterly still, that I didn't see Malfoy turn the corner and saunter towards me. I didn't notice it was him until he spoke.

"Christ, you look awful, Granger," he exclaimed, suppressed laughter tingeing his voice.

"Thanks, Malfoy. I knew I could always count on you for a kind word…or five," I responded tremulously, wanting to just push past him and run to my room and not come out until the train was leaving for Christmas break.

"Wrong, actually, but no need to rub _that_ in—there's so much more to talk about," he drawled, smirking.

"Like what? The weather?" I asked sarcastically, knowing where this was going, but perversely needing to hear him say it.

"No, I meant last night. It was _such_ fun, Granger, you have no idea. I could barely get to sleep I was so excited. Did you have similar problems? I imagine you did," he remarked cruelly.

"Riveting, yes," I said dryly, wondering how it was that I hadn't already collapsed in tears.

"Oh, but that's such an understatement," he pressed, his eyebrows drawn together at my uncharacteristic reticence.

"No, no. It's quite sufficient," I responded politely.

He stared at me, his condescending smile faltering—but only for a second, just a fleeting moment, really, and then he was chuckling, shaking his head, regarding me with amusement, scorn, maybe even a little bit of pity.

"Denial is a little much, isn't it? At this stage, I mean."

"I don't actually know what you're talking about," I replied slowly, my skin prickling; I was irritated, frustrated, annoyed beyond belief, and I could feel the aggravation seep through my pores, drip down my bloodstream, clench my stomach in a surprisingly firm, surprisingly resilient grip—I really wanted, needed him to stop speaking, because if he didn't I had no idea what I would do, since I was suddenly, inexplicably—only, really, honestly, there were reasons, weren't there—unable to tolerate the sound of anyone's voice, most of all his.

"I don't know why you're pretending you're not upset," he shrugged.

The wool of my gloves was scratchy against my palms; I flexed my fingers, ripping the offending garments off. 

"I'm not _pretending_ anything," I responded testily.

"You? You're always pretending something, Granger. This isn't exactly abnormal," he pointed out, sneering.

I could feel the flush creep up my neck, could feel my skin turn blotchy and red like t always did when I was uncomfortable; his tone was grating against my frayed nerves, and I could feel the split-ends of my increasingly ragged emotions brush against each other.

"What am I pretending, Malfoy? Just out of curiosity," I bit out, my scalp itching—I reached up to scratch it, my fingernail catching on a strand of hair. I pulled too hard, felt the strand snap, brittle, lifeless, useless.

"Your entire life is an act, put on to impress, nothing else," he returned, his tone mocking, biting.

"I'd rather impress than antagonize," I responded, my lungs burning: Breathing was a chore, unnecessary and unrelentingly persistent.

"You mean you'd rather lie?" he retorted.

"I'm reasonably sure that's your area of expertise, not mine."

"I'm at least straightforward about the myriad ways I'll be a disappointment. You pretend it's all a surprise," he said, his lip curling.

My heartbeat stumbled.

"I don't pretend anything's a surprise. I can't control other people's expectations."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"What are you getting at, Malfoy?" My jaw was clenched, my teeth grinding together in an ascetic kiss that was so much less sensual than the real thing I could have laughed.

"Is that what you blame your…unrequited love on? The chaotically pathetic excuse that happens to be fate?" he sneered.

I tried to shut out what he was saying by focusing on the flagstone floor—I fixed my unrepentant gaze on the soft gray stone, shiny with age and wear, barely visible cracks running like veins through its gleaming surface. It would be smooth to the touch, I was sure of it.

"Is it considered unrequited if you don't know? If you keep it to yourself? It's a mystery until they reject you, technically. Therefore, no, I don't blame it on fate. I blame it on you," I said coldly.

He blinked; I held my breath.

"At least you aren't blaming him," he said wryly. "Because I assure you, Granger, no one else is either."

I bit my lip, shut my eyes, and stood up as straight as I could.

"So whose fault is it that she's prettier than you? It can't possibly be mine, too?" he asked, his words twisting and turning themselves until they were jammed rather unceremoniously into my heart.

"As if I'd give you the satisfaction of taking the blame for _that_," I replied, swallowing.

He eyed me, a thin veil of hatred masking his outright disdain.

"Of course not," he said, brushing past me, leaving me alone in the empty hallway, his words and his footsteps echoing together in my overcrowded skull—they blended, swirled, branded themselves in my conscience until I could see, all I could sense, was the shame.

I ran to my dormitory, slamming then locking the door, and hurled myself into my bed.

I waited for sleep to claim me in the middle of the day, hoping that when I woke up, it would be Christmas.

Christmas, yes.

That's what I wanted now. All I wanted.

Of course.


	4. IV

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: This is short, obviously. But it's important, and I didn't know what else to add to it. I like to end chapters with a sense of finality, and the five hundred words that encompass this one seem to have that. I'll write more (much more) for the next chapter, but this seemed right to me. Apologies for the shortness, though.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Snow was swirling in picture-perfect white tendrils outside my window. Christmas had finally come—I smiled to myself as I watched snowflakes get caught on tree branches, streetlights, each other. My fingers curled around the hot mug of tea I'd just made, and I took a sip, letting it warm me from the inside out. I was calm, sedate, tired: I had nothing to be confused about at home, nestled securely in the bed I'd slept in for over a decade. I had nothing to wonder about, nothing to wish for, and nothing to fix. But, probably most importantly—

I had nothing to miss.

It was surprisingly liberating, this thought. For years, I'd identified myself using three absolute truths.

_My name is Hermione Granger. _

_I am of above average intelligence. _

_I am in love with Ron Weasley_.

I would go home to my parents and spend weeks pining for him; I'd write letters, sighing wistfully when I'd get a reply and gaze down at his impatient handwriting. I didn't know how to explain that I had never had platonic feelings for him, so I gave up giving him hints and decided to wait until things weren't so complicated.

It was the first time since I was eleven that I'd been able to appreciate the stable, unchanging simplicity of home. No distractions. No daydreams. I had gradually grown out of my habit of living in the moment—through his eyes. I had stopped wondering how I would tell him about things, what I would say when we saw each other again. I had finally, finally given him up.

I was still alone. I was still hurt, disappointed, upset; I was still embarrassed and humiliated, still uncertain how to cope with Malfoy and his arrestingly accurate observations.

But it didn't seem to matter anymore. I was detached, drifting—maybe one day I'd wind up comfortable with my solitude. Maybe one day I'd forget what he looked like. Maybe one day I'd be able to laugh at my melodramatic reaction to something that didn't matter.

That day wasn't now. I knew that even as I trailed my hand down the icy glass of my window. I knew that as I set down my mug on my dresser and folded back my comforter. I knew that as I climbed into bed, settled back against my pillows, and shut my eyes.

It wasn't now. But maybe it was tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. I didn't know, couldn't know, and that was exciting. I'd never before been excited by the prospect of ignorance—I had a new absolute truth, a replacement for the one I'd been wrong about.

_My name is Hermione Granger._

_I am of above average intelligence._

_I can change._


	5. V

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: This story is turning out strangely. Not in a bad way, just an unexpected one. I promise Draco interaction in the next chapter—I just for some reason really needed to get the Ron situation straightened out in a very in-character way.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

He was sitting on a bench in the courtyard, his hands bunched in his hair as he bent over a book that lay open in his lap. I smiled fondly for a second as I paused at the entryway, shaking my head at his apparent frustration.

"Hey, you," I said, giggling at his startled expression.

"Oh, hi," he replied, a blush making its way up his neck and across his face.

"How was your Christmas?" I asked brightly, trying to diffuse the awkwardness of the situation.

"Er, alright, yours?" he answered quickly, swallowing as I sat down next to him.

"Excellent, actually," I responded, sighing at his skittish behavior.

"Great, great," he said genially, his voice cracking.

"Listen, Ron, I'm not here to do anything stupid," I told him, rolling my eyes at the guilty glance he shot in my direction.

"You never do anything stupid," he remarked, his lips curling upwards.

"That's not even close to true."

"No, it really is. You're smarter than anyone _I _know," he told me fervently.

"Smarter than Lavender?"

The words were out before I could hold them back; they hung between us, oozing malice, and I wanted so very badly to take them back that I bit my lip, shut my eyes, and held out a hand to stop him from leaving.

"I didn't mean it like that," I tried to explain.

"Oh, really? Then how'd you mean it?" he asked quietly.

"It…came out before I could stop it," I replied.

He studied me, his eyebrows drawn together, his confusion palpable.

"What do you want, Hermione?" he finally asked tiredly.

"I...I think we should just talk, don't you?" I responded, my voice thin.

"Yeah, yeah. Of course," he said unenthusiastically.

I could feel my throat constrict at the unexpected harshness of his reaction—I hadn't thought it would be like this, couldn't have ever thought it would be like this. We'd been friends for too long, I couldn't imagine him throwing it away so easily; obviously, I just needed a better imagination.

"I suppose not, then," I remarked sadly.

"I don't know what you think talking—right now, I mean—can accomplish," he said incredulously.

"What, I should let this...this ridiculous misunderstanding _fester_ between us for months and months, just to avoid having an uncomfortable conversation?" I burst out, irritated by his fatalistic attitude.

"You did before," he pointed out.

"I know," I whispered, staring determinedly at my feet.

He had the grace—strangely, uncharacteristically—to look embarrassed by the honesty of his comment.

"Look, Hermione, it's just…not a good time to try and mend things, you know?"

"No, I don't know," I replied testily. "I thought we were friends. Friends talk about things. Even when it's hard. Or is that not a guideline for friendships like ours?"

He flushed.

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

"I don't know anything, anymore, actually. I apparently do _very_ stupid things, Ron—like thinking you would want to repair a friendship you've had since you were eleven."

I gathered my coat around me and started to get to my feet.

"There you go again, being dramatic. Isn't this just the slightest bit _strange_ to you, Hermione? I mean, God, I never knew…never guessed, at all, and you think that that's something I can just learn to accept in a few weeks?" he hissed, gritting his teeth.

"Why do you think I'm trying to talk to you about it, if not to help you…adjust?" I inquired, my tone silky with sarcasm.

"I don't know, revenge?" he said accusingly.

I flinched.

"I came to talk to you because I thought you should know that I…don't care about you anymore. In that way. I did a lot of thinking over Christmas, and realized how stupid I had been. Am being. I don't want this to impede on our friendship. But apparently it will anyway," I said, my tone hard.

He sighed.

"Hermione, look. Don't turn this into a huge personal slight. I don't want to not be friends anymore. I just don't think it's a good idea, all things considered, to talk for awhile. You say you're over it, and maybe you are, but I'm not. I need time to figure out how to handle things."

I jerked my head back, opening and closing my mouth in astonishment.

"What, pray tell, is there to _handle_?"

"You know, how to, well, talk to you," he replied, shifting his body as he spoke.

"How to talk to me," I repeated.

"Yeah."

I was slowly, achingly, realizing something—something I didn't want to know, didn't want to think about, didn't want to ever have to confront.

"Well, then, bye," I said nonchalantly.

"Wait—Hermione, don't be like this," he said exasperatedly.

But I was already standing up, shakily to be sure, steeling myself for the task ahead: I had to forget him entirely, not just in that other more complicated way, but the real way, the way I didn't want to.

"I'm saying bye, Ron, just like you wanted."

"That isn't what I want."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to just give me time," he pleaded.

"Time. How vague a request."

"No. No. Stop turning this around. This isn't a normal situation. It's…just not."

"I'm aware," I said coldly, "of how abnormal the situation is. But I'm trying to be mature about it. There's nothing complex about what I'm doing here. You're with her, not me; I accept that, I'm moving on from it, and I'm trying to get on with our friendship. Lots of people do it all the time, but you can't seem to comprehend the simplicity of it so I'm giving up. You want time? Take it. As much of it as you want. Really."

I was breathing heavily by the time I'd finished speaking—he was looking at my neck, afraid to meet my eyes, like he'd always been when we argued.

"I...I don't really know what to say to that," he remarked weakly.

"Just do me a favor," I bit out.

"Oh?"

"Do me a favor," I repeated, shaking my head and smiling. "One day, probably in the not-so-distant future, when we're not talking and you take a spare moment to wonder why, remember this—_you're_ the one who pushed _me_ away. Okay?"

I made my way out of the courtyard, knowing I'd probably overreacted.

But—and I put a hand to my forehead and laughed at the thought—it felt good to be irrational sometimes.

It felt delicious, actually.


	6. VI

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: I wrote this chapter freehand, in a notebook purchased on a complete whim at a drugstore across the street from the café I like to get my breakfast at. I think I managed to touch on a part of Hermione's character that I've never really explored before—that ethereal facet of her personality that is in many ways nearly identical to certain aspects of Draco's. They are both negative catalysts on each other's lives, something that seems like such a simple thing to say, but is rarely ever brought up. People might disagree with my dissection of these characters, but I'm really interested in delving into that concept—that scientifically, deep down, we're all really the same.

**CHAPTER SIX**

I heard the obnoxious noise of uproarious male laughter as I rounded the corner on my way to Charms—I rolled my eyes, expecting to see a group of rowdy young boys giggling at something that was remotely phallic-shaped. I was—utterly, awfully, completely—unprepared for what I stumbled upon.

Draco Malfoy was chuckling, the sound bouncing off the stone walls, zigzagging its way towards my ears; Pansy Parkinson stood in front of him, her own laughter drowned out by the rampant, obvious sincerity of his. I didn't know what had been said, what had happened, but something about the moment struck me forcefully, without warning, a slap in the face, a jolt to my highly strung nervous system.

I'd never really thought of Malfoy as human. He'd always been beneath me, not good enough to be ascribed emotions; he was my enemy, my nemesis, incapable of doing right, and therefore unworthy of pure, base things like happiness. I'd only ever seen him smile at someone else's expense, only ever seen him laugh when there was someone else's degradation to revel in by doing so. He was petty, and he was mean, and I'd never, not once, wondered what his personal relationships might be like.

But no. That wasn't entirely true. I'd wondered, of course I'd wondered, and I'd only ever concluded subjectively. Pansy—because I hated her too, was that it?—was the fawning, feminine purveyor of all things pathetically misogynistic. Crabbe, Goyle, they were the stupid, stultifying lackeys whose satisfaction was duly noted through the grunting they managed to pass off as conversation.

And yet—

And yet it appeared that there might be more to them all than my cynical, one-sided observations had allowed.

Comfort radiated from the pair of them, the kind of easy, relaxed companionship found only in the truest, most devoted of friends. I was jealous, infuriated, confused—I had no idea what to think, no idea how to react. Pansy whispered something to him, her voice refusing to carry down the corridor to my stunned, unmoving body.

And then a second later, a moment later, half a moment, the most minute span of time I could ever hope to experience with such lucidity, with such awareness, my world tumbled off its axis, rolling and sinking and withering away to a place I couldn't name, couldn't recognize—

because Malfoy had noticed my silent presence, noticed the breeze of discontent I had brought with me, and in that snatch of space that represented no more than a millimeter, a nanometer even, on my timeline, before he recognized me, before he remembered who I was, why it was so wrong of me to be standing there, he had a smile on his face so genuine, so full, so perfect in its simplicity, that I caught my breath—no, that isn't quite true. In reality, I just forgot how to breathe.

He was transformed, unfamiliar. He wasn't Draco Malfoy, he couldn't be, because Draco Malfoy never smiled like that. Draco Malfoy wasn't supposed to have a reason to smile like that. He certainly would never smile at _me_ like that.

I could hear my heartbeat, could feel it press and push and swell against my ribcage, faster and faster, blood pumping out and in and through it with alarming, deadly velocity. My eardrums hurt, thudded, the pressure they exuded causing me to understand what drowning might be like, except I had nothing to drown in, I was inside, in school, I was safe.

Until my frantic, wandering, searching, desperate eyes met his.

It was strange, realizing exactly how little I'd ever noticed about him. I had had this preconceived notion about who he was, what he represented, what I should see when I looked at him—I hadn't ever bothered to notice that his eyes were quite beautifully shaped, that the irises were grey but rimmed in a vivid shade of navy that provided a sensible kind of contrast, almost symmetrical. I hadn't ever bothered to notice that his eyelashes were—oddly, discomfortingly, awkwardly—black, lush, thick, long, perfect. Little details, unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but important enough in that tiny, infinitesimal speck of time, if only because they made me wonder what else I hadn't ever bothered to notice about him.

Our gazes remained locked, unblinking and unbroken, as his smile slowly disappeared, as his happiness faded back into nothingness, as his open, carefree expression turned back into cold, shuttered indifference. It struck me that I had the same effect on him as he did on me, that as much as I liked to think I was better than him, we were mostly the same, mostly identical.

I regretted instantaneously, on impulse, that I'd been the one to wipe that smile off his face. Not because it was his, not because it was him, but because I knew exactly how precious happiness was, how fragile, how tenuous, how beautifully short-lived. It seemed so stupid to throw it away.

"What are you looking at, Granger?" he sneered, his lip curling. He'd crossed his arms over his chest defensively, his posture uninviting—it occurred to me that I'd interrupted something private, something personal, and I was ashamed—unabashedly, illogically—of my gracelessly voyeuristic interlude.

"I…I…nothing," I stammered, my cheeks turning crimson.

"Take the hint and look at nothing somewhere else, then," he told me.

I snapped out of my dreamy, contemplative state, recollecting in an instant that I hated him.

_Oh, right._

"Fascinating word choice, Malfoy. 'Hint' implies a friendly gesture. I would think a more apt word for what you were giving me is 'warning'," I replied testily.

"Correct. Now leave," he demanded imperiously.

I heard myself laugh as if I was underwater, the noise alien, foreign, a gurgling testament to my own wayward dedication to this primitive game of verbal chess we always played—I couldn't remember if I was a pawn, a knight, rook or queen or king.

"No," I replied childishly, stupidly.

He took a vaguely menacing step towards me, oblivious to Pansy's annoyed sigh, his attention solely focused on me and my unrelenting immaturity.

"I wonder what possible misunderstanding you could have latched onto," he intoned dryly.

"I'm just curious about what you might be warning me about," I replied, shrugging.

"Don't be," he advised icily.

"I really can't resist. You're one of the least intimidating people I've ever had the displeasure of meeting," I told him rudely.

He leaned against a wall, inspecting his fingernails and smirking.

"Oh?" he asked casually, the only evidence of his mounting anger the pale pink flush creeping stealthily up his neck.

"Rather pathetic, really, considering how hard you try," I went on.

I heard Pansy snort, her impatience at this ritual palpable in the narrow confines of the hallway. It had been months since Malfoy and I had engaged in this kind of ruthless exploitation, and we were both out of practice. The words that were coming out of my mouth tasted rusty, the hinges of my tongue moving roughly, slowly; the mechanical accuracy of my excruciatingly sharp witticisms felt antique, unused and forgotten.

"You want to talk pathetic, Granger? Let's talk pathetic," he began sourly. "Wouldn't you say it's pathetic how flimsy the Weasel's loyalty turned out to be? I hear that seven years of friendship wasn't enough for him to continue speaking to you after he found someone stupid enough to date him."

I gritted my teeth against this onslaught, barrage, array of bullets that were spraying so effortlessly from between those thin red lips.

"Funny, since I don't believe you've yet to find anyone stupid enough to date _you_," I retorted, turning on my heel and dashing in the opposite direction before he had a chance to reply.

I stumbled into the nearest girls' room, making my way towards a mirror. I stared at my reflection in the unflattering fluorescent light—my skin was flushed, my hair was flat, my eyes were overbright, overwhelmed. I looked frightened, upset, petrified.

I tried to smile, just to see what it might look like, just because I was curious. The result was laughable, a parody of the shimmering example Malfoy had set back in the hallway; my attempt was a hysterical, paradoxical blend of teeth, lips, and insincerity.

My attempt was, in short, pathetic. Just like everything else was, including my understanding of the world I'd inhabited for eighteen years.

I was just starting to realize that it was a long walk back to reality.

And I wasn't certain I had the stamina for it anymore.


	7. VII

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: Changed the rating, obviously. This chapter made a lot of sense to me, as it would for anyone who has been in this particular position. I tried to capture the confusion of the moment of assent, but I don't really know if I succeeded.

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

My only rational thought didn't make sense.

_It wasn't supposed to be like this_.

I was getting what I wanted, everything I'd ever expected, and my stupid, stupid brain was ruining it.

I could feel the hard, cold surface of the desk chafe against the back of my bare thighs, the discomfort a distraction, and it seemed wrong, suddenly, that my shirt was half-unbuttoned, that my skirt was merely pushed up and out of the way, that this was happening in an empty classroom behind a closed door while everyone else was at dinner. It seemed wrong, all at once, that he'd latched his teeth onto my earlobe in an attempt to be sexy, but it didn't feel good, not at all, and his hands were fumbling, frantically, with his belt buckle, and he was breathing heavily, and I was just sitting there, not even bothering to feign interest, wishing we were in a bed, wishing this wasn't happening so quickly, wishing we hadn't stopped kissing, that I hadn't ever grabbed his hand and guided it towards the front of my shirt—wishing that the circumstances weren't this messy, weren't this complicated, weren't this unforgivable.

It had all started when we'd been left alone in the common room before lunch. The air had crackled with electricity—and something else, something rather like anticipation, and the strange, ethereal tension didn't dissipate when he'd sat down next to me, much closer than he needed to, our thighs had been touching, and I'd been far too aware of his body, my body, and then he'd turned towards me, an odd expression marring those adorable, freckled features, and—this is the part that became blurry, unclear—I couldn't be sure if I'd kissed him or he'd kissed me, I didn't remember, but maybe that was just the guilt, and then I was straddling his lap, his hands gripping my waist as I moved against him, and I could feel him, every inch of him, and his face was warm against my palms, and our mouths were open, our breath mingling, merging, warm and moist, and then—

"Ron, we shouldn't be doing this," I whispered, hating myself, hating him, hating the desperate way my hips were hugging his.

He shut his eyes, sighing.

"I know," he replied.

And then we'd gone our separate ways, our skin flushed red, and then we'd seen each other leaving Charms on the way to dinner, and I'd stopped in the slowly emptying hallway to adjust the strap of my bag, and he'd lingered, and then he'd been backing me into the classroom, kicking the door shut, our tongues and limbs tangled together, and then I'd realized, rationalized—

_It wasn't supposed to be like this_.

It wasn't supposed to be heated, feverish, rushed. It wasn't supposed to be clandestine, secret, hidden from the rest of the world because he was supposed to be doing it with someone else. I wasn't supposed to be this easy, and he wasn't supposed to be this fickle. We were supposed to be in love, it was supposed to feel good, it was supposed to be slow and gentle and it wasn't, it wasn't at all, and it was supposed to be perfect, he was supposed to be perfect, we were supposed to be perfect, and it wasn't, he wasn't, we weren't, and as I was thinking all of this, he'd managed to get his belt undone, and before I had the chance to tell him no, no, no, to explain that this wasn't right, didn't feel like it should, he was inside me, and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt so fucking much, and I let out a cry of surprise and pain and regret and disappointment and he pulled away, astonishment registering on his face, and he opened his mouth to say something, and he pulled up his boxers, and I curled my knees up to my chest, put my forehead on my knees, and cried.

I cried because I couldn't take it back. I cried because I thought I was better than this, because I thought I deserved more, because it wasn't what I wanted it to be, and he wasn't what I wanted anymore, and I didn't know what that meant, and hadn't it been just a few weeks ago that I'd realized all of this? Why had I needed proof, evidence, something to justify the conclusion I'd drawn so thoughtfully, so wonderfully, over Christmas?

His hands were on my shoulders, and he was dropping kisses across my forehead, my cheeks, my nose and lips and eyes, and saying something about how sorry he was, something about how he knew all along he couldn't live without me, and then I heard the door open and I felt my breath seize, my sobs catch, my tears freeze.

"Well, well, well," a familiar—oh, please don't let this be happening—voice drawled.

I had never fully understood my hatred for Draco Malfoy. Not until that moment, that second, that instant when I looked up from my knee caps and saw him leaning against the door, his arms crossed lazily over his chest, trademark smirk in place. He had interrupted the most private, most personal, most humiliating event of my life. He had effectively caught me at my worst, my most vulnerable; and I knew he wasn't going to play the gentleman and leave. I knew he wasn't going to forget this, keep it to himself, act like it hadn't happened.

Ron didn't know what to do. He looked torn between comforting me and running away.

"Come on, Hermione, let's get out of here," he muttered finally, tugging at my hand. But I couldn't get up. Not with Malfoy in the room.

Because what Ron didn't realize was that I was sitting in a puddle of blood.

"I can't," I whispered, shooting him an urgent, desperate look.

"Why?" he asked loudly. I cringed.

"Because, I just can't," I replied, glancing down.

Malfoy watched our exchange with an expression of great interest.

"Weasley, I'd hate to think what your girlfriend would say about this," he remarked sadly, inspecting his fingernails.

"Shove off, Malfoy," Ron said nastily.

_It wasn't supposed to be like this_, I thought again, wincing as I shifted against the desk.

"In that case, I'll just have to tell her about this fascinating little meeting we've all had," Malfoy said casually.

"Don't." My voice was an overloud, awkward echo in the ensuing silence.

Ron was gaping at me. Malfoy just raised a supercilious blond eyebrow.

"Don't, Malfoy," I repeated, remembering I was talking to a boy who could smile, who had feelings, who might we willing to trade Ron's humiliation for my own.

"What, you don't want to be known as the slut who tore them apart?" he asked rudely, appraisingly.

"No, I just don't want her to have to pay for my horrendously stupid mistake," I replied, my jaw clenched.

He snorted. Ron just stood there, baffled.

"Hermione, you mean you don't…" he trailed off.

"No, Ron, I don't. I shouldn't have…I just don't anymore," I responded, my words jumbled, the meaning clear.

He nodded, just once, before heading for the door.

"Way to play the martyr," Malfoy said accusingly, his lip curling.

"What are you talking about?" I replied tiredly.

"He cheated on his bloody girlfriend with you, and you decide when you get caught that it was a bad idea? Good job taking the moral high road," he spat out derisively.

I swallowed, and swallowed again, and opened my mouth, trying to think of something to say in my defense—and then understood, as I floundered, drowned in my own silence, that I didn't deserve one.

Malfoy's scorn had less to do with morals and more to do with the exploitation of my lack of them. I was hypocrite, and he was right. My stomach rolled with self-loathing. I was sick with myself, with my behavior, with my all too fallible sense of right and wrong.

"How did you even get in here?" I asked softly.

"The door was unlocked. I heard you scream. Was it really that good, Granger?" he sneered.

I shut my eyes, marveling at the conclusion he'd made. He'd thought—of course he'd thought—I shook my head, tears pricking at my eyelids.

"Can you please leave?" I whispered, needing, wanting, aching to be alone.

He studied me.

"You're pathetic," he said, shrugging, smiling condescendingly.

He was right, of course.

I knew he was right even after he'd left, even as I stared at the bloodstain on my skirt. I knew he was right as I made my way back to my room, even as I drew a bath, threw away my clothes, stared and stared and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

It bothered me, for some reason, that I didn't look any different.


	8. VIII

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: Another inexcusably short chapter. I realize it's already chapter eight and I haven't really made any progress at all with Draco's character development. So I'll get on that next time. But this was significant for Hermione's development, so at least I'm getting _somewhere_. Anyway. I apologize for the unfettered infrequency of my updates; I'm juggling the stress of having my first novel picked apart and scrutinized by a melee of intimidating publishers and don't have a lot of time for anything but that.

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

When I was a little girl, I had loved to spin.

I would stand in the middle of my bedroom, hold my arms out, and spin—faster and faster, shutting my eyes against the sickening blur of color flashing past me, my hair flying out, waiting for the moment when I'd lose control of myself, my body, the moment when I'd topple over, unable to stand upright any longer, my stomach rolling and my brain slamming against my skull. I had adored the hectic mess of limbs and adrenaline and confusion that I would become, adored the way time practically stood still when I was watching my skirt flare around my knees, when I was caught in between destiny and free will; there was something about making the decision to not be in control that I was attracted to—it was probably the irony, the philosophical paradox that simplified the geometry of free will.

In the hours that followed the incident in the empty classroom, I felt the familiar stirrings of chaos erupt in my bloodstream. I was being suffocated by own decision making, my own fatally flawed sense of self; I was wandering—aimlessly, awfully—through a flowerbed of decaying dreams, mistaken identity, and blooming, blossoming, beautiful regret. I had gotten lost somewhere between letting go and figuring out what it was that I wanted, because I didn't know anymore, couldn't remember the details of the idealistic persona I'd painstakingly carved out for myself all those years of silence and loneliness ago.

I couldn't remember much of anything: I didn't know who had made the first move, didn't know why the tension between us had been so thickly sexual, so void of meaning yet so full of promise, all at the same time; I didn't know where my voice had gone when I'd watched him—in slow motion, in painfully slow motion—unbuckle his pants, didn't know why I hadn't screamed, cried, said no no no; I didn't know why he hadn't locked the door, why I hadn't noticed, why it had taken me so long to stop bleeding, why there'd been so much blood to begin with, why it had hurt, why I hadn't waited, why he'd done it, why I'd done it, why why why—there were a hundred, a thousand, a million questions I didn't have answers to.

And I, the simultaneous pariah and paragon of avoidant behavior, wanted to just give up on the whole sorry situation. I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened—but that was impossible, wasn't it, because every time I sat down, I had to wince, because there was an awkward, auspicious pain between my thighs if I moved my body too quickly, because there was a constant, dull, throbbing ache all the time, a reminder of how far I'd fallen, how low I'd sunk.

It was time to pick myself up.

I'd been waiting for help, assistance, a proffered hand to grab onto. It was time to accept that it wasn't coming.

It was time to help myself.


	9. IX

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER NINE**

I was numb.

It had been raining for the better part of an hour, but I couldn't bring myself to move. I'd gone outside to sit by the lake, to watch the calm, serene surface of the water; the clouds had been dark, but it was winter, I hadn't been able to tell if the gloom meant bad weather or not. When the first few drops had fallen—thickly, slowly—I had felt disconnected from my body, from my sensitized skin, from the gradual dampness permeating the wooly confines of my clothing. I hadn't registered that the crackly rumbling thumping against my ear drums meant a storm was coming; I hadn't noticed the spindly effervescence that meant lightning, hadn't let my gaze drift away from the pristine, perfect lake.

I was thinking about what a waste it had been—loving Ron, betraying myself, allowing a single bad decision to culminate to fantastically, so abruptly. I was thinking about how fitting it was that Malfoy was the one to catch me, the one to witness my fall from all things graceful. I was thinking about what my heart—that mythical, ambiguously physical puzzle—had endured: I'd been able to remove the initial splinter, but it had left an infection, wormed its way to an ugly climax fraught with humility and regret.

But regret—that was what I was really thinking about, what I was wholly focused on, because as much as I wished it hadn't happened, I recognized that I was going to let it go. I wasn't perfect, no matter how hard I tried to be. Even if I'd been stupid, even if I'd messed up, even if I'd done something I couldn't ever take back, couldn't ever fix—what was the point in pretending I hadn't? Just because I'd forgotten—momentarily, briefly, awfully—that everything I'd once wanted had to change? Just because I'd been tempted—finally, wonderfully—by something I still had to remind myself I couldn't have?

Even broken hearts have doubts, relapses, weaknesses.

My reverie was shattered by a harsh burst of lightning and a hand on my shoulder.

"Granger? What the—bloody hell," Malfoy swore angrily, swiping water from his eyes.

"What do you want?" I asked, raising my voice.

"Snape saw some idiot sitting outside alone in the middle of a torrential downpour and sent me to fetch her, actually," he bit out, his furious gaze raking my face.

Time slowed down. I watched raindrops fall, his mouth open, his tongue form words; I watched his features contort with gradual confusion, watched his rage subside and be replaced by irritation, suspicion, alarm. I watched him glance nervously up at the sky, at the dark clouds and the streaks of lightning; I watched his patience crumble, watched his resolve stiffen, watched—fascinated—as he thrust a hand out, waiting for me to take it.

I stared at his hand, at the way the rain ran down his knuckles, at the long, tapered fingers eclipsed by clean, even fingernails. I stared at this blatant offer of help, assistance—from Malfoy.

And I ignored it.

I got to my feet, our eyes locking—brown and gray, uncomplimentary colors—they didn't clash, didn't meld, and I wondered if there might be some significance in that.

He didn't drop his hand.

There was something strange happening; even in my dismal state, drunk on confusion, furious at his outrageous hypocrisy, I could recognize that something was changing, subtly, barely. I just didn't know what it was, couldn't put a name to it.

A sudden clap of thunder shook the sky, eliciting a surprised shriek from the dark recesses of my throat.

Reality roared back to life in the form of a freezing cold, tempestuous thunderstorm—I was astonished at my audacity, horrified by my thoughtlessness, terrified into submission by the sight of a smoldering tree branch. I grabbed—fumbled, really—for Malfoy's hand, letting him jerk me back towards the castle, his hurried walk turning into a desperate stumble turning into a flat-out sprint. The rain pelted us mercilessly; my cheeks stung, my vision blurred, but then he was hauling open the front doors, shoving me inside, and there was dry ground and silence and calm, still air.

He was breathing heavily, his hair plastered to his forehead.

"Allow me to congratulate you on your _supreme_ stupidity, Granger," he spat, his eyes narrowed.

I swallowed, unable to reply.

"What? You don't have anything to say? Not a single _fucking_ excuse?" he demanded, his tone grating, imperious.

"I…didn't realize," I mumbled softly, a strange choking sensation enveloping my lungs.

"Didn't realize," he repeated cruelly, incredulously.

"I just…I didn't realize it was raining so hard," I said, biting my lip, feeling an invisible weight press itself against my chest. My heartbeat was strained, muffled.

He blinked, studied me, smirked, shook his head, and all the while I felt my tonsils collide, close in on each other, and—

"I can't breathe," I managed, falling to my knees and wrapping my arms around my torso.

He watched me dispassionately, his face betraying nothing but profound disdain.

"Get up, Granger," he said.

I didn't move, couldn't move, I was paralyzed by the unwelcome fact that Malfoy was lecturing me as if I was some dysfunctional teenager who'd broken curfew, but my ability to perform the most basic of all bodily functions—breathing—had returned, albeit erratically.

"Get _up_, Granger," he said again.

I looked up at him, wondering why he was telling me this, when all he'd ever wanted was to see me debase myself, just like I was doing—

"Why do you care?" I asked curiously.

He appeared taken aback by my question.

"I care," he replied thoughtfully, sarcastically, "because I was sent on a fucking rescue mission to save you from yourself—and, you know, looking at you now, I'm starting to see that that's a lost cause."

I didn't say anything.

"Well? Get up, Granger!" he shouted angrily.

I stood up jerkily. He watched me passively.

"What's wrong with you?" he hissed.

I snapped.

"I don't know. I don't know, and I can't even lie and pretend I do because no one but you has bothered to ask!" I wrenched out, surprising myself.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Well," he said after a pause, "that was melodramatic."

I closed my eyes, painfully aware that I absolutely reeked of self-pity.

"Tell me, Granger—what's it like?" he inquired mildly, his drenched clothing the only aspect of his appearance belying his cold, calm demeanor.

"What?" I asked, baffled.

"What's it like to be so scared of everything that you…can't even breathe?" he elaborated brutally.

I shook my head weakly.

"No, really. Tell me. I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave—and you can't even face the truth?"

Each word needled, bit, stung; I was the victim of perfectionism, and no one had bothered to diagnose me.

"So what's it like?" he asked softly, his lips curving upwards. "To be afraid of failing? To be more afraid of your own mistakes than you are of anything else? To be so ludicrously independent that you can't handle a single—no, no make that two—it was two, wasn't it?—lapses in judgment?"

I felt wet tendrils of hair cling to the nape of my neck, felt beads of sweat and drops of water intermingle and slide with an awful sort of intimacy down the crevice of my breasts: Reminders, all of them, of my flimsy, faulty attempt at running away.

"You think you've accepted it, don't you? You think you can move on, forget about it. But do you actually think I'd let you do that?" he continued mockingly.

His skin was so pale. Ethereal, almost, in the dim, harrowing candlelight.

"So tell me, Granger. What's it like?"

I thought about that—I thought about everything I'd done and been through and accepted; I thought about how I'd rejected his hand, then taken it; I thought about how his palm had dwarfed my own, how our fingers had overlapped and twined together and how safe I'd felt, even though I wasn't, how relieving it had been to feel safe, even though I wasn't; I thought about safety, caution, principles that had governed my life until just recently, or maybe they still did, maybe despite everything I was still a stupid little innocent—but, no, no, no—I thought about what innocence could have possibly meant to me, what naivety came to equate; I thought about lost opportunities, lost chances—at what, though? What had I missed out on? What was I so unhappy with? Myself? Was that it? Was it really that simple?

I shrugged.

"I don't know, Malfoy. Why don't you tell me?"

His eyes flashed, his lips thinned.

He took a step towards me, stopped, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, turned around—

And left.


	10. X

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: The reactions I'm getting to this story are so varied that I'm wondering if everyone is reading the same thing.

Either way, I didn't even realize this story was depressing until a number of reviews pointed it out to me—I was honestly oblivious. I thought I was just being realistic. But now that I have more than six minutes of time to myself, I reread all of this and have drawn a similar, if not completely identical, conclusion. One reviewer pointed out that I write Hermione's emotions with a detached practicality—in this story, this is true, and as a result there's very little room for idealism. So I'd recommend reading this in the vein of, say, George Eliot as opposed to Jane Austen. I can promise a happy ending, but with the way I'm exploring the characters, I probably won't make the _journey_ to that happy ending very happy. If that makes sense.

But on a happier (ha) note, I'm actually really, really pleased with how the tone of the story is progressing. This chapter is definitely interesting in terms of Draco and Hermione's relationship; I'm trying to focus on the physicality right now, if only because it exacerbates her acknowledgment of his humanity, and therefore, eventually his personality. I have a vague feeling that this story will be quite a bit longer than my other ones. So please just pretend this all makes sense right now and have faith in my ability to tie a story together.

Anyway, I have exciting news that is entirely unrelated to fanfiction. My publishers have begun the long, arduous process of editing my (as of now) 435 page novel. Just because some ridiculous number of you asked what this novel of mine is about, I'll indulge my self-importance and give you the premise: Ostensibly, it's the first-person narrative of a highly intelligent, bored, upper-middle-class teenage girl in suburbia. She's a pathological liar who, over the course of the story, loses her sense of right and wrong. That sounds contradictory, but I can't actually give specifics right now, so take my word for it when I say that it will make sense in context. I spent a long time writing this—close to two years, I wrote my first draft in a short story workshop my sophomore year of college—and I can't begin to explain how gratifying it is to know that I did something right.

Even if I had to move to New York to do it. (I knew I should have gone to Columbia.)

**CHAPTER TEN**

I was leaving the library, rummaging through my bag, when I ran into him.

"I'm so sorry--" I started to say before looking up.

He sneered.

"Apology not accepted," he said acidly.

I stared at his retreating form.

"Really, Malfoy? Is that how it's going to be?" I called out, angry.

He slowly turned towards me.

"Yes, it is," he replied in a clipped tone that radiated a peculiar mixture of discomfort and disdain.

"You think you're so much better than me, don't you?" I demanded.

I was feeling more like my old self—I was feeling like maybe the rain from the night before had washed away my inadequacy, the confusion I couldn't quite pinpoint, the questions I couldn't wholly answer.

"Do you really need to ask?" he drawled, smirking.

"Yes," I replied simply, pointedly.

He swallowed; I smiled.

"What is that—hesitation?" I asked.

"Granger, I find myself completely indifferent to your hallucinations. I was quite satisfied with ignoring you for the first four months of school. Do yourself a favor and continue the tradition," he said, sighing.

I considered this; I considered it a form of escapism, from judgment, scorn, disdain, hatred, all his, just like always. And yet—and yet. There was something that felt wrong about falling back on old habits. Something off in pretending I didn't care. What was the point in acting like we didn't hate each other? In feigning happiness at a stalemate? Calling a draw just because it was easier? Science told me that we were different, on a biological, a psychological, and a physical level. I hated—couldn't handle, not even a little bit—the idea of being his equal, not with this newfound sense of purpose I was wallowing in.

I couldn't run away.

Not anymore.

Passivity wasn't an option.

"No, thank you," I answered with a shrug.

His eyes widened, his lips parted.

"I find the notion of pretending we're equals…distasteful," I continued, picking a piece of lint off the front of my blouse.

He stared at me for a moment before laughing unkindly.

"Equals? I wasn't proposing _that_, Granger," he replied.

"Oh?" I challenged.

"And here I thought you'd learned your place," he said, shaking his head with mock disapproval.

"Obviously not," I responded, a strange giddiness erupting in the cavity of my chest: _Normal consistency and inconsistent abnormality are the makers, the breakers, the engineers of happiness as you know it._

"Pity," he snorted, nervously licking his lips: _A dry mouth is the only evidence of the pack of damp, suffocating lies drowning in the back of your throat._

"You asked me what it was like, last night, to be afraid," I said, my voice overloud.

"You were too afraid to answer, if you recall," he pointed out acerbically.

I flushed.

"No, I just thought you might know better than me," I retorted heatedly.

"Well, I don't."

"Really?" I asked, exaggerating my surprise.

"What would I be afraid of, Granger? Since you know me so well?" he said.

I studied him.

"You're afraid of yourself," I answered softly.

He cocked an eyebrow, crossed his arms over his chest, and made a short motion with his hand for me to continue: _Hands are what tell stories, not faces, not mouths, not even words._

"You're afraid, I think, of what you think you can become…you're afraid of knowing you aren't the best, of realizing that you never will be," I went on, watching him narrow his eyes and take a step towards me.

He stopped in front of me, barely an inch separating us, and leaned forward. Our mouths were almost touching, our breath was melting together: _Introspection should be, could be, might be a hormone, a pheromone, something that makes us sweat, gasp, ache, need, wonder and wonder and want so badly that standing up is a chore, an irritant, a foregone conclusion._

Our gazes were locked, and there was a startling, mesmerizing intensity in his that made me regret my decision to tell him what I thought, what I'd always thought, to tell him that arresting observation I'd made that made us so much more similar than he could ever begin to imagine.

"Wrong," he hissed bitingly before shoving my shoulder and stalking past me: _Dishonesty and denial are obstacles that can't be helped or stopped or moved alone, no matter what you think._

I watched him walk away, watched the ripple of muscle in his back as he raked a hand through his hair: _There's no room for independence here, is there?_

I smiled, closed my eyes, and shook my head.


	11. XI

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

I was tying a roll of parchment to the spindly leg of a semi-conscious owl when I saw the folded piece of paper lying on the ground, its edges crumpled, its appearance oddly forlorn. I picked it up, thinking it would be blank, surprised to see its milky, yellow surface filled with anxious, spidery script; it was a letter, unsigned, dated six months ago:

_You hurt me, sometimes. But I think you know that—even though I don't think you do it on purpose, not like you do to other people. Now that I'm older, I understand that you're just embarrassed by your thoughtlessness, your insensitivity; your distance isn't a reflection of your feelings, but a defense mechanism you put up against my confused hostility. You don't know me anymore, if you ever did, and that makes me sadder than you realize. I'm not the person you think I am, or think I can be. I'm simultaneously more and less than that. I wish you wouldn't expect so much of me. I wish you would remember what it's like to not know who you are sometimes, what it's like to want to escape the identity that was thrust upon you when you were too young to protest. I wish that you would talk to me about things that matter, that you cared more. Except I know that you do—so what I'm saying is that I just wish you acted like it more. I wish you would let unhappiness be an excuse, that you would let me make excuses, that you would let it be okay every once in awhile to mess up, do badly, fail, be imperfect. I wish that you weren't so awkward when confronted with emotion, that you didn't assimilate emotion with stupidity to begin with. I wish that you could tell me you loved me more than once a lifetime, that you would offer to listen to me when I need it most. I wish that I could say all of this to you, and that if I did, you wouldn't scoff and tell me to grow up. Because I'm tired of playing the adult. I'm tired of having to be a grown-up. I'm tired of pretending I'm mature enough to handle everything I have to. I'm not, and I wish you'd remember that. I—_

The parchment was ripped from my slackening, astonished grip. I looked up, my heart thudding, dropping, deflating.

"Having fun, Granger?" he hissed, his cheeks a bright, fiery red.

"Malfoy--" I began, swallowing over and over and over. I couldn't quite grasp what I'd read, what it meant, and his presence—his furious, humiliated presence—didn't quite make sense, and nothing about the situation felt quite right, but I couldn't have said why, if pressed.

He didn't say anything, just clenched his jaw, his fist, and I saw a vein in his wrist pulse dangerously, and his knuckles turn white, and I was mortified.

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, brushing my hair behind my ears.

"Sorry?" he repeated.

"Yes, I shouldn't have…that is, I wish I hadn't…I really, really shouldn't have just picked up someone else's correspondence," I explained hurriedly, my palms sweaty.

"Really," he replied dully.

"Really," I answered earnestly, dimly registering that his reticence was unusual—dimly registering that his silence was probably a warning, and that I should run away, far away, before I understood things I didn't want to.

"Be that as it may, I'm sure you enjoyed your little excursion into my personal life," he remarked sourly.

"No!" I exclaimed immediately, horrified by his accusation. "I really didn't, Malfoy. I…no one should…I mean…I really didn't."

"Of course, not," he said sarcastically. "Why would you? After all—where's the attraction in knowing something excruciatingly personal about your sworn enemy?"

I shut my eyes, bit my lip, and balled my hand into a fist, feeling my fingernails dig into the soft flesh that puckered underneath my bent fingers.

"I'm not…you of all people should know I'm not like that," I said softly, imploringly.

He eyed me appraisingly.

"Actually, I don't know that. All I know about you is that you're a fount of useless information, self-indulgence, and misappropriated superiority," he replied archly.

And that was when I understood—I understood the highly aggressive disdain he'd directed at me throughout my long, drawn-out collapse. I understood why he'd been so unforgiving, so cruel, so derisive; he had the same problems I had, the same exact flaws, just with different reasoning, with different logic.

"You don't know me, Malfoy," I reminded him, my voice low. "Don't talk like you do."

He let out a bark of laughter.

"I know you better than you claim to know yourself, Granger, believe me," he drawled.

"What does that mean?" I demanded impatiently.

"What do you think it means?"

"You're delusional, maybe?"

"Try again," he suggested.

"I don't know, Malfoy. What does it mean?" I asked sweetly, my eyes narrowed.

"It means that you're exactly who I would be if I let myself give up," he said seriously.

I stared, confused, appalled, my pulse racing, my bottom lip nestled between my teeth.

"What?" I whispered.

"Your penchant for melodrama aside—not excused—think about it. We both want to be the best—you're just a lot shyer about it than I am. We both put pressure on ourselves to be better than everyone else—you're just in denial about it. You're me with artifice; you're me with a nicer exterior," he finished, sneering.

"I don't understand," I said quietly, unblinkingly, unwittingly.

"My father is a constant source of expectation," he said bitterly. "He isn't a bad man, and he was never a bad father. He's always given me everything I've ever wanted. But his expectations gradually manifested themselves as a paralyzing fear of failure. I wasn't born a perfectionist, but my…unwillingness to disappoint him turned me into one."

I felt dirty listening to him talk; I felt helpless, contaminated by my own weaknesses, and I wanted to help him, make it better, even though I couldn't.

"Every morning, I go up here and try to send this letter. And every morning, I realize that I can't, that there isn't a point, that I can't blame who I am now on him."

He shook his head, and I was struck by the incredible symmetry of his features—the straight, even nose; the full, beautifully bowed lips; the cold gray eyes, inexpressive in their silvery clarity, rimmed by long, thick lashes: His face was the epitome of patrician perfection.

"You don't like who you are now?" I asked softly.

He regarded me steadily, curiously.

"Do you?" he replied, baffled.

I met his gaze, flinching at the directness.

"I used to," I answered honestly.

An uncomfortable, prickly silence crept up on us—there were too many secrets hovering in the corners, too many unspoken regrets, too many ignored avowals of everlasting hatred.

"You told me, last night, what I was afraid of, and I said you were wrong," he said suddenly. "That isn't precisely true."

"It's not?"

"No. You weren't wrong. You were just…not completely right."

I opened my mouth to reply, but couldn't think of any words that would make this situation alright, normal, easy to digest, understand, reflect on.

"Granger? This conversation hasn't changed anything. I still hate you," he said quietly, intensely.

I nodded, understanding.

"I still hate you too," I whispered.


	12. XII

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

"I really just can't get rid of you, can I?" His voice was tired, his manner subdued; I'd heard footsteps come up the stairs towards me, but hadn't expected to see him.

"I guess not," I replied softly, shrugging, turning my gaze to the window.

He walked towards me, stopping a few feet away—the atmosphere had an expectant, ethereal quality, and I was disgustingly curious as to what I was waiting for, even though I didn't know, couldn't know.

"Well, do me a favor and don't speak," he said, his eyes betraying some kind of foreign exhaustion I didn't quite understand; didn't quite think I wanted to understand.

"I rarely go out of my way to do so around you, so that shouldn't be a problem," I replied sarcastically, smiling slightly to myself.

And he stood there, still, staring at me, watching me, his expression serious, thoughtful, daunting in its consistency.

"Can I ask you a question?" he blurted out.

I nodded.

"Why—" He stopped, shook his head, opened his mouth to continue, thought better of it, bit his lip; all the while, he was raking a hand nervously through his hair, and I was focused on the suspiciously delicious shiver that darted up my spine at the sight of his long, beautifully tapered fingers, wondering what it meant, wondering why it meant that, wondering why it mattered and I had noticed it at all and why he couldn't seem to talk.

"Why did you scream?" he finally finished, meeting my baffled gaze with a discomfiting, desperate curiosity—except I had no idea what he was asking, couldn't remember—for a second, a brief, fantastically relieving second—what he was referring to, but then I realized, recognized, and my heart froze, my skin prickled, my mouth went dry. I felt as if the earth were spinning backwards, the wrong way, as if something was wrenchingly wrong but I couldn't feel it, couldn't tell what it was with any sort of accuracy, any sort of confidence, and then I looked at his face—

"It hurt," I whispered, blinking back tears. "I screamed because it hurt." There was an uncomfortable pause as he digested my words. "I screamed because I didn't want him, and everything was wrong, and it wasn't supposed to be happening, but it was, and I…I screamed because I'd been anticipating that moment since I knew what that moment meant, I'd been waiting for it for years, and—well," I finished quietly.

He studied me, his brow furrowed, his eyes devouring the tense, anxious set of my mouth and the cold, clammy flush slithering up my cheeks and the over-bright, crystalline sheen of my eyes.

He took a step towards me, his hands balled into fists, and I felt—suddenly, inexplicably—as if I was being tested, as if everything I was saying and feeling and thinking was being weighed, measured, judged.

By him.

He was a puzzle; he was hateful and spiteful and cruel and a thousand other things, but what if—_oh, God, don't finish that thought Hermione, don't finish it, don't finish it_—what if he was more than that? How did you really get to know another person, anyway? Actions, words, the things that they chose to let you see. The things that could be cultivated, groomed, the things that could be used and manipulated and distorted to such a degree that they could project whatever image they wanted to. I thought about Ron, and how well I'd thought I knew him. I thought about myself, and how well everyone else thought they knew me.

How well I'd thought I knew myself.

"I guessed it was something like that…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I just couldn't believe he left you like that."

"What do you mean?"

"With me," he clarified, shrugging.

An awkward silence ensued; he swallowed—I nervously brushed a strand of loose hair back behind my ear—he cracked his knuckles—I opened my mouth to say something—he licked his lips—I inhaled, held my breath, prepared to speak—he sighed, cracking his knuckles, and then—

"You were just so self-righteous all the time," he said, looking agitated.

"Excuse me?" I replied, bemused, wondering if I should be offended.

"He should have known I'd love catching you both like that. He should have realized. I'd been making fun of you for years for being such an uptight little—" He cut himself off, shook his head. "He shouldn't have left you with me. I wouldn't have even done that."

I felt something rather like laughter force its way through my lungs.

"Are you laughing at me, Granger?" he demanded, irritated.

I collapsed against the wall, shaking with mirth, his anger palpable in the narrow confines of the tower room.

"You just—you sounded so _protective_," I explained, overcome by another fit of giggles at the sight of his stony face.

He swore violently, taking an aggressive step towards me and grabbing my elbow, his grip utterly unrelenting, his eyes alive with an emotion I'd never seen; never felt; never experienced.

My laughter died a quick, ignominious death.

"What's funny about that, Granger? Tell me."

I stared at him, at the muscle twitching so powerfully, so deliciously, in his jaw, the tick reminding me of a metronome, a waltz, something mundane and something romantic, _one_-two-three, _one_-two-three, something I shouldn't be noticing, something I shouldn't be attracted to, something I shouldn't want to reach out and feel for myself, to touch, just a fingertip would suffice, skin on skin, proof that he was there and alive and so very, very close to me.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" I asked softly, terrified to meet his searching, demanding gaze. His silence was telling; I swallowed, tried again: "Isn't it?"

He reached up, his hand cupping my face, his thumb running a race against sanity over the soft skin beneath my eyes; his nostrils flared, delicately, quickly, and his mouth opened, he wanted to say something, but I'd gasped at the sensation of his palm grazing my cheek, distracted him, and his eyes flew to mine, and I was suddenly terrified, because it was like 

looking into a mirror, it really was, polished silver confusion in a gilded frame, that's what it was, and I felt his other hand press against my lower back, molding into the curve, and press me forward, against him, and then before I could register the intimacy of such a position, before I could push him away, remember who I was, I felt his chest expand, his breath flutter against my mouth as he spoke:

"Remember that storm, Granger? The one you let yourself get caught in?" he whispered, his words a mind-numbing caress.

I nodded, shivering at the memory of our clasped hands, our fingers entangled, slipping against each other in the downpour.

"I told you that Snape sent me, didn't I?" he continued, and I could feel his hand move against my back, his fingertips dancing across my spine, softly, gently, enticingly: _one_-two-three, _one_-two-three.

I barely managed to move my head, acknowledge my assent.

"He didn't send me," he said, his hands moving to my waist, trailing across the expanse of my back. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

He went still, and I went still, and I whispered, "No."

"No one sent me, Granger."

The cloud of affected mystery, suppliant seduction, melted away, and he was just a boy again, holding me too tightly, waiting for me to understand what he was saying, waiting for me to push him away or pull him closer, waiting for me to accept or reject him, this, his explanation.

And then I wrapped my arms around his neck, shut my eyes, and kissed him.


	13. XIII

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

He was frozen—he tasted like astonishment and heaven, an odd, yet completely fitting, completely logical, combination. His lips didn't part at first; his hands were shaking when they got around to resting at my waist. I couldn't hear anything except my heartbeat, ragged and dauntingly loud in the sudden silence. And then I moved against him, just slightly, and the tenor of our embrace completely changed.

He grasped my hips and pulled me closer; and then I was against the wall, gasping, arching towards him, and his mouth was open and hot and trailing down my jaw, my neck, his tongue briefly touching the hollow at the base of my throat, and I could feel my pulse rocketing erratically, and the muscles in his shoulders were tense, or they felt tense, they rippled with a shudder as I raked my fingernails over them, and his skin was burning—

He roughly backed away from me, his chest heaving, his eyes stormy.

"I--" I started to say something, started to make an excuse.

But he had already left.

OOO

I was strangely calm.

I attributed this ethereal serenity—so out of place in a temperament as totally high strung as my own—to my brain simply ceasing to function.

The world had to have ended—I was dreaming, that was it—I was having one of those stress-induced hallucinations, wasn't I, of course I was—because there was absolutely no possibility that my lips were still tingling, none whatsoever.

I couldn't wrap my thoughts in a coherent fashion around what had happened.

I couldn't begin to understand what my body was telling my mind.

I couldn't, wouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't.

There was a solution, if only I could navigate my way through the jungle of emotions I'd woken up in.

There had to be.

Desperation didn't equate to honesty, though, but I was a long way away from accepting my fate gracefully. Seven years of malice didn't just disappear, fade away—the past was the only constant in my life just then, unchanging, unalterable, and I refused to let myself pretend our history was written in pencil on an uncharacteristic hormonal whim.

I latched onto that word—hormonal. It was purely biological, a human instinct at its most animalistic. My explosive reaction was just that, wasn't it? Attributable to a blossoming sex drive, that was all.

That was all.

OOO

"Hiding, Granger?" His voice was velvety smooth in the darkness; I clenched my jaw at the unwelcome interruption.

"Ignoring is probably a more accurate word," I replied shortly, hugging my knees to my chest, staring determinedly at the flat, luminescent surface of the lake.

"I can't imagine why you'd want to do that," he said conversationally, dropping down next to me.

"Can't you?" I asked coldly.

He didn't bother responding.

I sighed, conceding defeat.

"What do you want?" I finally asked.

"An interesting question," he mused, leaning back and resting his weight on his elbows.

"How unfortunate, then, that I'm not the least bit interested in its answer."

"Then why bother asking?" he returned, the first signs of impatience marring his tone.

"It seemed the fastest way to get rid of you," I shrugged, aiming to infuriate.

"Clearly a priority of yours, Granger. Remind me who walked away the other night?" he bit out.

I swallowed.

"I was...distracted," I countered lamely.

"Of course. Were you as easily distracted with Weasley?" he inquired rudely, cruelly, and it occurred to me that I'd hurt his feelings.

I almost laughed—but something about the tension hovering thickly between us stopped me, something about those barely-there inches made me pause. I looked at him for the first time in two days, let my eyes make their curious way over the arrestingly even planes of his face.

"You don't mean that," I said evenly, daring him to meet my gaze.

He turned towards me, then, and I swear, something inside me flared, snapped, exploded—electricity didn't do justice to what was happening, and I was confused, bewildered, my mental incapacitation made a thousand times worse by the fact that it was being reflected back at me by _him_, of all people.

"I don't mean most of what I say," he said.

"What about what you don't say?"

He paused.

"I don't mean that, either," he replied, shrugging.

An uncomfortable silence crept up.

"I should warn you, Granger. I always get what I want."

A horrified giggle burst from my lips at his patently ridiculous statement.

"I believe I've lost track of this conversation."

"I always get what I want, and there's very little anyone can do about that," he continued as if I hadn't reacted.

I raised my eyebrows at his appalling egotism, wondering why I was surprised.

"And what," I asked, deciding to humor him, "is it that you want?"

He looked away from me for a second, and I was taken aback by his expression, which was stuck resolutely somewhere between uncertainty and discomfort.

"I'm not sure anymore," he finally responded softly, shaking his head.

"Oh."

"I used to know, you know. I used to know what I wanted, and what I wanted to change, and exactly what my life would be like if it _did_ change. I used to know who I would rather be, and who I hated, and who didn't matter at all."

He stopped speaking, then, and I licked my lips, wondering why he was telling me this, and where this was going, and why I cared, why I wanted him to continue, why I felt like I understood.

"But now…it's funny, really, but I can pinpoint when that…all-encompassing certainty completely disappeared." His mouth moved then, quirked really, like he was suppressing an untimely smile, and I felt my throat go dry.

"You can?" I whispered, knowing this was important, knowing that he was about to say something that would make sense, would give credence to this spectacular hormonal imbalance.

"It was that day with Weasley, in the classroom. You looked at me and—and I swear, this is the part I've never got, but you looked at me like I could _help_ you. It was remarkable. And you asked me to leave. You even said please. Like we were having tea."

He snorted softly, his jaw moving.

"And this is when everything went to hell. Because—just for a second, mind you—I wanted to make it all better for you. I wanted to make it go away. I wanted to pretend I'd never opened the bloody door and caught you, and I wanted to pretend I hadn't realized you were crying. I wanted to pretend I wasn't supposed to hate you."

He took a deep, fortifying breath; I couldn't move, couldn't blink.

"But I did—do, I mean, hate you. And I was so convinced I could make that, at least, permanent. But then you had to go and kiss me, didn't you? You had to make it worse. And now--" He stopped.

"And now?" I prompted, my skin tingling.

"And now, I don't know what I'm supposed to want. But I know I'll get it."

A light gust of wind whispered its way across my face.

I didn't stop to wonder why I was reaching for his hand.

OOO


	14. XIV

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: I'm not going to pretend I didn't forget about this, haha. I definitely did. But I've been suffering from the most appalling case of writer's block, and was going through all the half-finished, half-started word documents on my external hard drive, and came across this—unfinished. So I'm back, sort of, and hope I haven't completely lost the tone of this story.

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

I was prepared this time; I knew what to expect.

I knew, for example, that it was completely acceptable for my mind to go as blessedly, blissfully blank as it did; I knew, for example, that I wasn't supposed to be able to breathe. It was natural for me to feel dizzy, to feel as if I was falling from a very high cliff, my descent graceless, chaotic, out of control—this wasn't a swan dive, it was a desperate rush of adrenaline and fear and artless misunderstanding.

I felt his hands in my hair, his mouth open and hot against my own, and I knew I was lost. It would hurt to land, a fact I could only dimly recognize, but the freefall, the excitement, the purely physical appreciation—it almost made it seem worth it. Gravity still existed; science could still rationalize and explain my uncharacteristic behavior. But then he touched me, really touched me, and I forgot what gravity even was.

I kept hearing my name, an intimate slur of meaningless syllables, brush against my skin; his lips were everywhere, my nightgown was missing, and then his breath was moist and warm against my thighs, and I shivered in anticipation, dread, with an aching desire to understand why I was supposed to want this so badly—

I screamed, of course.

OOO

"You never could shut up, could you?" he drawled, a playful lilt to his voice I didn't think I'd ever heard before.

"Tact, I'm guessing, wasn't emphasized in your upbringing," I returned, blushing.

He laughed, which surprised me—I remembered the day I'd seen him smile, for real, for the first time, and felt something shift in my brain, making room for this uncomfortable reality; _I wasn't supposed to be doing this_.

I sat up, instinctively wrapping my arms around myself.

"Hermione?" he asked quizzically, craning his neck to look up at me. I watched his eyebrows slowly lower as he took in my ashen face.

"Ah, of course. Regret sets in, just in time," he remarked caustically, and I flinched when he reached up to deliberately wipe his mouth.

"This is completely crazy," I hissed, mortified, trying in vain to shut my eyes against what I knew I had to see.

"Maybe," he agreed, his lip curling. "But it was quite informative. For me, at least."

At my confused expression, he made a casually dismissive motion with his hand.

"I now know, Granger, exactly what it is that I _don't_ want," he elaborated, and I blinked at the sudden attack, wondering how he could have guessed that hearing him say it out loud would hurt me quite so much.

"So maybe I should thank you for helping to…elucidate the matter," he continued, a wry, not altogether pleasant smile decorating his features.

"I live to serve, clearly," I said, my tone icy. "Or wait—that's you, isn't it?"

His eyes widened, then glittered with something—something different than usual, something I couldn't identify.

"Well you certainly didn't scream like that for Weasley, did you?" he replied, shrugging.

"How do you know?" I snorted, hoping he couldn't see the heat suffusing my cheeks.

He paused, appearing disconcerted by my lack of maidenly horror.

"Let's just say that the attention you were paying me earlier had the distinct feel of your fervor for all things educational," he smirked.

I felt helpless in that awful, horrible moment; he was humiliating me, making all the right moves, and I couldn't say anything to defend myself.

"Then maybe I should be thanking _you_," I responded, my eyes narrowing, my breathing unsteady.

"Undoubtedly."

"That isn't--" I fumbled clumsily, trying to explain myself. "That isn't what I meant."

"Tsk tsk, Granger." He cocked a supercilious brow at me. "Where'd the wittiest witch of yesteryear go?"

He was laughing at me, that much was clear, and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

"You're probably wanting to get back to bed," he said in a stage whisper. "Wouldn't want the grown-ups catching you, would we?"

I stood utterly still, wondering how it was that I hadn't started to cry.

"I hate you," I finally said, my voice low with promise, my gaze steadily boring into his own.

"Clearly," he said, eyeing the grass stains on my nightgown with a telling twist of his lips.

I felt a shiver of resentment, wondering why I had so little control of the conversation.

"Why are you being so cruel?" I finally whispered, tears pricking my eyes.

The palpable veil of bitter, acerbic tension that had shrouded us since I'd stood up disappeared.

"Why are you being so stupid?" he returned, an edge to his words that lent them an air of sincerity.

"Stupid?" I repeated in disbelief.

"Yes, Granger, _stupid_," he bit out, and I realized then how furious he was.

"How am I being stupid?"

"_This is completely crazy_," he mimicked, his jaw clenched.

Silence.

"Well, it is," I said matter-of-factly, lifting my shoulders in a fatalistic shrug. "That isn't just my opinion, either. That's fact."

"Kindly remember that I happen to know 'crazy' a little bit better than you do."

"Then what would you call this?" I demanded, exasperated—and maybe, just maybe, a little hopeful, a little optimistic.

"Worthwhile," he said succinctly.

And then, while I gaped, astonished, my heartbeat erratic and my thoughts in a complicated jumble—

He turned on his heel and walked away.

OOO


	15. XV

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

Worthwhile.

_Worthwhile_.

Hardly romantic, was it?

I snorted, shaking my head as I sat up, running my hands down the tops of my thighs; I was in bed, it was midnight, and I was thinking.

No one wanted to be worthwhile. It was like being acknowledged as a consolation prize—it was like believing someone who says he loves you, just because he tells you to, and you think to yourself all the while, well, maybe he thinks he means it, maybe he does, just for this moment, because maybe, just maybe, love isn't about passion, maybe love is about settling, about knowing you're with someone—_worthwhile_.

Maybe.

But my confusion wasn't just about that silly, toxic little word, those two syllables that had fallen deftly and sharply out of his mouth.

As if I'd ever let something so simple bother me.

But my stomach was hurting and my eyes were tingling and I was so so so scared of crying because there wasn't any evidence, was there, no proof, just my terminally wrong instincts, and I felt my heart get stuck in my throat, I couldn't even swallow, and—

Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't I have just stayed in love with Ron, who finally wanted me? Why did it have to be Draco Malfoy, who, it seemed, couldn't just make up his mind? Who I discovered something different about nearly every time I saw him? Why had I kissed him, why did I still want to, why had everything he'd done felt so good, beyond good, good wasn't a strong enough adjective to describe the feeling—why was I sliding out of my pristine white sheets, finding shoes, and looking out the window, to make sure he was there?

He saw me coming. I could tell by the set of his shoulders, the cursory glance he shot at my exposed ankles.

"I don't want to just be _worthwhile_," I said, my insides thrumming, throbbing, the noise pounding against my eardrums.

He didn't say anything, just shoved his hands in his pockets and narrowed his eyes.

"I don't want to be something interesting to pass the time. I don't want to be worth the risk, but not a sure thing. I don't want to have a shelf life."

He pursed his lips.

I kept breathing.

"I don't want to be second best, second choice, a _possibility_ for the future. I don't--"

"Hermione." Just my name, a finger on my lips.

I watched his face, watched his eyes, knowing something important was about to happen, knowing…._knowing_—something.

"I can't give you anything but what you don't, apparently, want," he shrugged, and shifted his stance, and all I could think was—

_He's punishing me_.

"But I think you already knew that."

And then I was desperate—this wasn't going how I'd envisioned, if I even had, and he was slowly, surely, shredding my softly spoken demands to pieces, and my ribs felt bruised, like they were close to breaking, the pressure from the shriveled organ inside pushing and pushing, I couldn't believe what I'd just asked him for, of course he'd say no, it was a miracle he hadn't laughed, but—Christ, I still wanted to fucking kiss him, didn't I, I still wanted—wanted—wanted _him_, whatever that even meant, even if it meant on a spindly, centuries-old desk in a dusty, unused classroom, behind an unlocked door, even if it hurt, but no, that was backwards, perverse, what was wrong with me, my hands were shaking, shaking, my fingertips cold—

And then I felt my head being pulled forward and up, his lips against mine, his tongue press against my teeth, and I was lost.

Fallen.

Gone.

I made a choice, then. I could have stopped him when he guided me towards the dewy, emerald green grass; I could have stopped him when his hips were grinding into my own, and his hands were sliding up the planes of my stomach, skimming the skin below my breasts; I could have stopped him as his thumbs rubbed perfect, feather-light circles on my inner thighs, even as sounds, incoherent, increasingly loud, increasingly unintelligible, came out of my mouth; I still could have stopped him, but I didn't.

And when he was inside, finally, oh my God, we clicked, we made sense, and when our eyes met, he stopped, he paused, he looked unsure—but I couldn't help it, I had to move, I had to find it, something, _it_, that elusive thing I knew was coming, was supposed to come, and then, and then, _fuck_, it was like fireworks exploding in my abdomen, like my spine was crumbling, like there was an electrical storm worming its way through my bloodstream and fuck fuck fuck this wasn't Ron, it couldn't be Ron, it was him, Draco Malfoy, and I was arched against him, holding on, too tight I think, and then it was over.

He stared down at me, chest heaving, for an interminable moment.

And then we got up, got dressed, made our way back to the castle, and parted ways.

In silence.

But I wanted to scream at his retreating form, make him stop, turn around, pay attention. I thought about what he'd said right before kissing me: _But I think you already knew that_.

_Yes_, I thought. _I did._

Because, I saw it now, nothing had changed. Not really.

We were still at a stalemate.

OOO


	16. XVI

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

"You're avoiding me," I said three nights later, sliding my feet out of my slippers, letting my toes curl into the grass.

"Maybe," he replied, shrugging evasively.

I stared at him, dismayed.

"Why?" I whispered.

He shot me a faintly pitying glance, and I shivered, knowing what it meant, knowing what he meant—but no, no, no that wasn't quite it, that wasn't why I shivered, it was because for weeks and months and weeks I'd hated myself for no reason, or maybe it was a million different, small, infinitesimal reasons, and now, _now_, he was giving me a solid, explicable…_good_ reason, and I couldn't regret it, couldn't blame myself, and I had no idea—none at all—what that was supposed to mean.

"Listen, Granger, we had a bit of fun—if that's what you want to call it—and it's over. I'd think you'd be happy, seeing that we overcame our differences and all that. Inter-house unity, right?" And then he smirked, and my heart started to break, and everything was wrong.

But—

But _no_.

Not again. How many times had I suffered for my own stupid, stultifying silence?

"Unity, right, I should probably get on to having that with the rest of your house, then, shouldn't I?" I responded, laughing.

I watched as his mouth snapped shut, his hands balled into inconspicuous fists.

"Make sure to lock the door behind you this time, yeah?" he said, gritting his teeth.

"Oh, but…the grass was _so_ much more comfortable than that silly old desk," I cooed, my face flushed, my mind racing as I tried to calculate exactly how much longer I could stand this, do this, because he looked so furious, and—

"Let's get something straight, Granger. You can _fuck_ whomever you _fucking_ want," he hissed, his eyes flashing. "Because _I don't fucking care_."

I raised a single brow.

"Clearly."

He swore violently and spun on his heel, turning his mutinous stare to the crisp, even surface of the lake.

"You care," I went on bravely, "and it absolutely kills you."

I could hear him breathing from where I was standing, and I wished, ached, to feel his mouth on mine, on me, and I just needed him to say something, anything, because I wasn't sure how to continue.

"You cared when you saved me from that storm, and you cared when I kissed you that first time, in the Tower, and you even cared when you ran away. And you cared when _you_ kissed _me_, and you cared when you told me I was worthwhile, and you cared when you were inside of me, I saw it, I _saw your face_, and I wish you would just stop pretending that…that this—_us_—doesn't exist, or doesn't mean something, because…"

Oh, God, I'd stopped making sense, I didn't know what I was saying, and his shoulders were tensed, and the muscles in his neck looked tight enough to snap, and I steeled myself for rejection one last time, because I could watch, as if in slow motion, his lungs expand as he prepared to reply—

"Thank you," he whispered.

"What?" I was confused, bewildered, astonished.

"Thank you," he repeated.

"For what?" I blurted out.

He turned back towards me.

He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

He took three steps forward, grabbed my hands, and studied every inch of my face as if he was going to be tested on it, his eyes raking over the faint smattering of freckles on my nose, the sweep of my eyelashes, the curve of my cheek.

"For not letting me hate you," he said simply.

And then he kissed me, and it was soft, and gentle, and slow, and everything it was supposed to be, should have been the other times, and I tried to make sense of what had just happened, what I'd just said, what I could have meant, but his lips were brushing against mine, and the friction was exquisite, I wanted more—

He pulled his head back suddenly, his eyes a brilliant, perfect gray, and I blinked, stunned by the paralyzing loss of contact.

"I just want you to know something," he said, his voice serious.

"What's that?" I asked, clearing my throat, oddly breathless.

"You're bloody well off-limits to the rest of my house," he growled.

Something deep in the pit of my stomach flared to life, then, something I didn't want to name, identify, or analyze.

"Why?"

"Because," he murmured into my hair, his teeth grazing my ear, "you're mine."

I gasped as his mouth found my neck, as he nibbled his way to my collarbone.

"I am?"

"Yes," he said, his tongue flicking against my skin, "you are. You've been mine since Weasley left you sitting alone in that classroom."

"Yes," was all I could manage by then, all he seemed to need to hear.

Yes.

Oh, yes.

OOO


	17. XVII

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: Molly Bloom's soliloquy—it's odd considering the way I write that I haven't ever really had any use for James Joyce. _Ulysses_ for the most part bored me; however, I was forced to reread it this past weekend for a paper and remained entirely unmoved until the eighteenth and final chapter. Molly Bloom, in my opinion, is a completely unsympathetic character—her marital celibacy is beyond suspect, which makes her infidelity that much more cringe-worthy. And yet.

The final lines struck such a resounding chord. That word—_yes_. I'm well-versed in classic literature, I already knew the allegedly feminine undertones of that syllable, the antifeminist approach to subservience and acquiescence. But I couldn't for the life of me remember why I hadn't liked this admittedly overwhelming, and incredibly beautiful, passage before now. Had I simply lacked maturity? Or was it something else, something deeper, something happening right now that was giving it such power?

I still have no idea. But I keep rereading it, its lack of punctuation and form lending it a superb lyrical quality unmatched in even the most whimsically written poetry. And it inspired this chapter. Socialized femininity—why say "yes"? Why subjugate a female character to weakness just because, psychologically, I'm supposed to?

Hermione is incredibly flawed. That isn't exactly a secret. But do flaws necessarily equate to weakness, to a constant rendition of "yes" intermingled with a blossoming, burgeoning sexuality? The answer is: Of course. Rereading the last few lines of the previous chapter is enough to make me smile, because I unwittingly made myself a copycat. How unoriginal.

This is a really short chapter, but it worked for me.

_"...I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the __Andalusian__ girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the __Moorish__ wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. "_

Extract from _Ulysses_, James Joyce.

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

The next few days passed in a tantalizing, beautiful blur of stolen kisses and midnight rendezvous; heated, wordless embraces and illicit tumbles on the chilly spring grass. It wasn't how I had pictured falling in love—it wasn't how I had wanted to lose my heart, my senses, my mind. But I was, and it wasn't how it was supposed to be, but maybe, I rationalized, love didn't follow a formula, maybe it wasn't exact, maybe it wasn't a science—maybe, I thought wryly, dryly, it couldn't be rationalized.

"I think I'm falling in love with you."

The words were out before I could stop them, before I could catch them, like crumbs from a particularly crusty piece of bread. My head was on his shoulder, glisteningly pale in the moonlight, my riotous hair providing a fascinating contrast to the bland, smooth perfection of his skin.

I felt his body tense, the corded muscles of his forearms tightening around my waist; I heard him swallow, noisily, nervously.

"Granger," he began quietly.

"I shouldn't have said anything," I said quickly, knowing the heat from my cheeks was being rapidly transferred to his chest.

He hesitated.

"No, you shouldn't have." An awkward, messy silence interrupted him. "But you did," he finished.

I flinched, embarrassed, humiliated, my stomach tying itself into knots that would make a Boy Scout proud.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to complicate…this. Us. What we have."

He shifted beneath me, coming up to rest his weight on his elbows, staring at me incredulously.

"What we have," he repeated dumbly, coldly.

And suddenly I was paralyzed with fear.

"Granger," he said slowly, "I think we need to have a talk."

I tried to say, "No," but the single, horrible syllable got stuck rather resolutely in my throat.

"This wasn't…_isn't_…like that," he continued uncomfortably.

Very abruptly, I was confused.

My eyes narrowed.

No, not confused.

I was angry.

"So, I'm not…how did you phrase it…oh, yes, I'm not _yours_?" I asked pleasantly.

He flushed.

"I meant that…I meant that _sexually_," he hissed.

"Of course," I said graciously. "And when you said you cared about me…you meant platonically, I'm assuming?"

He opened and closed his mouth.

"You're overreacting," he drawled.

"You're actually _condemning _me for having fucking feelings! How am I supposed to react? Talk about mixed bloody signals! Nothing like a nice cuddle after a meaningless shag, right Malfoy?" I burst out.

He blinked, his head lurching backwards.

"Right."

OOO


	18. XVIII

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: Difficult chapter to write. I know it's awful and depressing, but as strange as this sounds, I'm positive there will be a happy ending. I wasn't so sure before, actually. But Draco's character needed work, and a little more…Draco-ness, if that makes sense. And this seemed a perfect way to do that.

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Avoiding him took…effort.

Energy.

It was like desperately trying to swim to the surface of a swimming pool with someone holding on to your ankles; I wanted to breathe, feel my lungs expand with that first, perfect, exhilarating breath—but I was being held back.

By him.

I hated that part, actually, it ate at me, bothered me, was frustrating enough to keep me up at night. It was just so—so _him_. It was a mirror image of the beginning of the school year, minus the draw: We'd dueled, hadn't we, and he'd won.

I'd let him.

I sat up in bed, wide-eyed and willfully, woefully awake. How dare he? How dare he lead me on and push me around and what, _what_, I was just supposed to take it, hope that maybe one day he'd deign to love me back, but for now, of course, I'll just sit and wait, always there for a casual fuck, a shoulder to cry on, and—_Jesus_, it was Ron all over again, wasn't it, a grown-up version, I was just being used in a different way, wasn't I, but no, no, he'd seemed sincere, he had _been_ sincere, he cared, he'd thanked me for being pushy, for God's sake, he was possessive, he cared, he had to, it wasn't just some stupid—some stupid _male_ thing, I was worthwhile, he'd said so, he'd said—

Well, fuck, he hadn't really said anything at all, had he?

I had a warped sense of romance. I'd let inference and insinuation and whispered, empty nothingness invade and take over, overriding my wispy, feeble protests, because I didn't really want to believe them, because there wasn't any room left over for logic in my twisted, irrationally complex relationship with Malfoy.

But maybe relationship was too strong of a word.

I bit my lip, wanted to cry, wondering how I'd gotten back to this achingly familiar place, wondering how it was that I didn't learn from my mistakes.

I let out a deep, penetrating breath, slowly swinging my legs out of bed and making my way to the window. I saw a slender figure standing at the edge of the lake, hands thrust in his pockets, and nodded once, decisively, before throwing on a sweater and running through the castle.

All I wanted was to be wrong, disagreed with. Just this once.

He turned slightly when he heard me sprinting down the slope towards him.

"Draco," I blurted out, chest heaving, hands on my hips.

He didn't bother replying. He simply raised his left eyebrow imperiously, his lips pursed impatiently, waiting for me to continue.

"I've been thinking," I said, trying to gather my thoughts, as jumbled as they were.

"You do seem to spend an inordinate amount of time doing that," he commented wryly.

I snapped.

"What is your problem?" I demanded, exasperated. "You say the…you say the sweetest, most confusing things to me, you kiss me, you fucking _rescue_ me, and then you…do this. I don't understand you."

"God, Granger, don't be thick," he snarled, unexpectedly lashing out. "You've turned what was nothing more than a minor…_diversion_ for me into a fucking romantic novel! How much more is there to understand? I wanted you, I'll grant you that, and yes, maybe there's an…a surprising understanding between us." He paused, twisting his lips. "On some level." Another pause, another moment of agonizing humiliation. "I suppose."

"Oh my—" I started to whisper, my vision cloudy with shame.

"But don't make this out to be more than it is, alright?" He let out a bark of laughter, his teeth glinting cruelly, morosely in the moonlight. "I can't love you. I can't even _be_ with you."

Rejection stung like fast, hard raindrops, and I was clinging desperately to my last shred of intuition, hoping hoping hoping that I hadn't misjudged him, us, the situation that badly, hoping that this was a joke, he was kidding, he was going to sweep me up and kiss me and make everything better.

"You—you said I was—you said I was _yours_, though," I choked out, swallowing back the sob that threatened to escape.

And there was that eyebrow again, that supercilious arch, his half-smile of amusement quite patently cruel.

"I don't like sharing," he shrugged. "Nothing appetizing about sloppy seconds, is there?"

I couldn't breathe, each word that came out of that spiteful, perfect mouth landing like a punch in the stomach.

"Then why—_why—_" I stuttered painfully, horribly, my head fuzzy, my thoughts dizzy.

"Think hard, Granger. Did I ever say I cared?" he drawled smoothly.

I thought, and I thought some more, and I suddenly wanted to vomit.

Hysteria blinded me, then.

"Why won't you just…admit it? Care. Say it. _Feel _something. I know you do, we've already _done_ this, argued about it, and you just—you just won't tell me, and I just—I just wish you would," I finished lamely, heart thudding, my racing, rushing blood flooding my veins, my brain, my senses.

"Hermione," he responded, and his voice was different, tense, abrasive. "There's a difference between…between _caring_ for someone and just…not hating them any longer."

His shoulders rolled up and then down, fatalistically, as if it wasn't his fault.

I gasped.

And then I think I fainted.

OOO


	19. IXX

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

**Author's Note**: Let's not talk about how long it's been, okay? Haha. Moving on.

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

When I woke up for the first time, I had no memory of what had happened. The sun was shining through the hospital ward windows-how was it morning?- and Madam Pomfrey merely shook her head judgmentally and informed me that I needed to not work myself to death anymore-people were worried! In my exhausted state, I found this comment puzzling enough to ignore, and promptly fell back asleep.

My second awakening was markedly different. For starters, it was dark. There was also a figure sitting at the foot of my bed, a figure with a suspiciously familiar shock of bright blond hair. I was momentarily confused-why was he here?

And then it all came rushing back, and I felt sick with embarrassment.

"What are you doing here?" I asked quietly, my voice scratchy with disuse.

My question was met with a long, tired sigh.

"I...I'm sorry, Hermione," he whispered, a hoarse chuckle bursting out. "I'm so sorry."

"What?" I was dumbstruck.

"I'm sorry. I should have never said any of those things to you. After everything we-I mean, I should have had more...tact," he finished lamely.

"Tact," I repeated.

"Yes."

My thoughts were dizzy. "How did I get here?"

He blinked and looked around the sparsely decorated room. "I brought you after you fainted."

"What did you say happened?"

"I said I'd found you like that outside the library, that you must have been studying late. She believed me."

There was something eerily wooden about our exchange; I felt as if I was talking to a stranger, making small-talk, letting reality and all its harsh obtrusiveness lurk under the surface while never giving it a chance to breathe.

"Oh."

Awkward, awful silence fell like a curtain around the bed.

"I didn't mean to lead you on," he finally said, swallowing noisily. "I wasn't lying when I said I had stopped hating you. And I will confess to some degree of...affection. But it wasn't..."

I cut him off with a painful nod. "I know. It's okay. I overreacted. I apologize."

He stared at me incredulously. "No, you didn't. I was awful to you last night. I just wanted you to go away. It was petty."

"What do you want me to say? That you're a bastard and I hate you? That you broke my heart and treated me abominably and you should be ashamed?" I demanded, annoyed by his uncharacteristic contrition.

He smirked, and I felt a flutter in my abdomen-oh, but he was saying all the wrong things in just the right way, and he was making sure I couldn't complain again, and it hurt so much to realize why he was there, I was just a loose end to be tied up in a cursory, unbreakable knot-he wanted me gone, and he wanted me to know it.

"I don't know. Whatever makes you feel better, I suppose. I just...I needed you to know I felt rather bad about how this played out," he said, a perfunctory grimace gracing his face.

My gut felt wrenched, my head was pounding, and...he felt "rather bad" about how everything had "played out".

"Well. It's fine. You can leave now, I think I'd like to rest."

He stood up immediately, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes, something that made the insincerity of the past ten minutes fade away; he looked hesitant, regretful, and maybe even a little sad.

"Wait," I heard myself say softly. "Why...why are you really doing this? Why did you say all of that? I think we both know you didn't mean it."

His jaw clenched, then relaxed. "I need you to be happy, Granger. I need you to not feel anything for me, because I will always disappoint you and I can't...I can't feel anything back. I told you before-I can't give you what you want, but I thought for a mad moment that maybe that didn't matter, but it does, because I can't even give you what you _need_. I need you to not remember me. Please."

I didn't understand him, or what he was saying. All I knew was that he was a lost cause, an ending dream; he was a coward, and he wasn't going to let himself love me.

There was a pressing tightness in the back of my throat as I looked away from him.

"Consider yourself forgotten, Malfoy."

He stood there, eyes wide, and for the briefest second he looked petrified, paralyzed, like a lost little boy, and before I could even react, he was pressing his lips against mine, tracing my tongue with his own, his hands roaming furiously-squeezing rubbing moving, ceaselessly, endlessly. His hips dug into mine with a ferocity I could barely comprehend let alone contest, and he was whispering my name, over and over and over, and he was ripping my nightgown off, but there was no time, this was too urgent, and in a single slippery second he was inside of me, and I realized that my eleven year-old self had been wrong, that I'd had no idea, none at all, that two bodies could meld so perfectly, could fit so exquisitely, the odds were astronomical, this was more than science, this was...this was _magic. _

My senses exploded, or maybe I did, and by the time he'd gotten up, and we'd said our goodbyes, the tears had started to fall.

OOO


	20. XX

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**Author's Note**: Second to last chapter. I'm excited about how this one's ending, though—I don't have time to write it today, but I know exactly how it's going to go. Enjoy.

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

Weeks went by. The Malfoy episode slowly started to seem more like a strange dream than a real memory, the feel of his lips on my skin a distant, fading figment of my imagination. I was careful to never meet his eyes when we crossed paths, to never look at him directly during mealtimes.

He may not have ever been honest about what he'd wanted with me, but he'd certainly been clear about what it was that he _didn't_ want.

Me. He didn't want me.

Admitting it to myself was less painful than it should have been, and I suspected that deep down, in the furthest, darkest recesses of my brain, I didn't believe it, didn't believe him.

I violently pushed the thought away; there wasn't room for it anymore.

OOO

_"I love you, Hermione," he whispered, his words fluttering across my mouth, warming me from the inside out._

_ His hands were on my waist as he kissed me, finally, and incredibly, ridiculously, my only rational thought was that this, him, us, was better than Christmas. _

_ This wasn't like coming home, not even close—this wasn't safe, this wasn't cozy. It was like standing next to a power line during an electrical storm, like cliff diving in the dark; it was terrifying, and dangerous, and if I was smart I would let go of him, wouldn't I?_

_ But I couldn't, there wasn't an explanation, I just knew that the next few seconds comprised the rest of my life, they must, because there was no way I was going to survive what was building up inside me, it wasn't possible—_

I woke up very suddenly, my skin hot and sticky, my breathing unsteady.

I stared unblinkingly at my hands, pale and tense, and wished, not for the first time, that this didn't keep happening. The dreams were always the same: he loved me, he made love to me, and I started awake. I never…_finished_, of course—I always woke up frustrated, confused, and uncomfortable. And then I would make my way to the lake, and sit, alone, until the sun started to rise.

As far as I knew, he hadn't been back there since the night I'd fainted.

Until tonight, of course.

I didn't notice him at first, was too lost in the hazy fragments of my dream to pay attention to the figure standing by the water—by the time I saw him, recognized him, it was too late to run away, too late to pretend I'd forgotten my coat and go into hiding.

He glanced at me as I made my way to his side, and I couldn't help it, I smiled, slightly, just a tiny upward tilt of my lips, because—because I'd missed him, hadn't I, missed fighting with him, missed trying to understand him, missed kissing him.

"Don't look at me like that," he snarled, hurling a small rock into the lake.

I blinked, taken aback by how angry he seemed.

"I apologize," I responded politely, wondering what I was meant to say.

He snorted bitterly.

"Tonight," he announced, throwing another rock, "my father, the illustrious Lucius Malfoy, escaped from prison."

I gasped.

"I didn't know who to tell, you see," he continued matter-of-factly. "You were the only one I could think of who'd be pathetic enough to probably offer sympathy."

"Is that so?" I asked coldly, suddenly furious.

"It is so, actually," he answered shortly. "You're in love with me, aren't you?"

Without warning, he grabbed me by the waist, pulling me towards him, and my heart started beating very, very quickly.

He stared down at me for a few seconds, his expression inscrutable. He cupped my face in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle, and rubbed his thumbs over my skin.

"So soft," he whispered. "So pretty. You're beautiful, did you know that? Very delicate. Whenever I touched you I felt as if you might break. I liked that, though. It made me feel…powerful."

I dimly realized that he wasn't himself, that I should quietly excuse myself and return to the castle before he did something regrettable.

But his right hand was trailing down my face, my neck, grazing my breasts, and I couldn't move, let alone think—abruptly, I pulled away from him, scared for him, scared for me, knowing that I'd have to hate him again if I let him continue.

"You should leave," I said firmly, watching his lips twist with something ugly.

"Why would I leave, Granger? You're so adorably available," he drawled, smirking.

I swallowed, hurt.

"No, I'm not," I replied, my voice wavering.

"_No, I'm not_," he mimicked cruelly, a bark of laughter escaping.

"Oh, just stop feeling sorry for yourself already," I snapped, glaring at him. "It's tedious. Everyone knows you couldn't care less about whether or not your father escapes."

He stopped laughing, his face falling into an icy mask.

"Tedious, Hermione? _Tedious_?" He repeated, incredulous. "You know what's _really_ tedious? Having to tell a girl on four separate occasions that you don't have feelings for her. Don't you think once should have been sufficient? Hm? Don't you?"

I clenched my jaw against the perilous, paralyzing heartbreak threatening to take over—I had to hold on, just for a little longer.

"Well, _maybe_ if it hadn't seemed like you were trying to convince _yourself_ rather than her, she would have believed you," I hissed.

He shook his head, not bothering to reply, and turned away from me. It was remarkable, really, how much that simple act of rejection upset me; before I even realized what I was doing, I was grabbing at his jacket, forcing him to turn and _face_ me, to look at me, acknowledge the truth, acknowledge _something_ besides his own bruised ego—

And so I kissed him, putting weeks of frustration and rage and denial into it, feeling a flat sense of triumph when I felt him relax, his tongue tangling with my own, the soundtrack the fast, furious tempo of our heartbeats.

"How do you not _feel_ that?" I demanded, begging him with my eyes to answer honestly.

There was silence, and then he met my probing, pleading gaze with his own—and oh, but I felt it again, the aching trembling awful reality of love, of wanting to _possess_ another person, of wanting that person so much you very frequently couldn't breathe, and it didn't matter that we'd done this before, done this already, it felt like the very first time, it always did, and I knew, then, without any of the agonizing doubt that had permeated my dreams, that I would continue to fight with him, for him, for as long as he'd let me, because there was something bigger, better than me going on between us, something _worthwhile_, something that could make me, break me, and I didn't care if I sounded crazy, didn't care if I seemed pathetic, because I didn't have a choice, did I?

And I managed to think all of that in less than a second, less than a millisecond, because he was kissing me again, and he was pushing against me, his mouth hot and moist and _perfect_, it was perfect—I'd stopped caring that perfect wasn't possible, stopped trying to make sex and love and our bizarre, one-sided relationship into a workable, sensible formula.

Because he'd freed me of that urgent, insistent _need_ to know everything, to be better than everyone, to work endlessly and tirelessly for something I couldn't ever achieve.

"Of course I feel it, Hermione," he whispered, pressing his lips against my neck. "How could I not? You make me crazy, you make me wish for things I shouldn't want, you make me…you make me _happy_."

His hands were molding my body to his; it occurred to me that there was something desperate about the way he was holding me, clutching me.

"Everyone else has run away from me, abandoned me, left me alone," he continued breathlessly. "But not you. I kept trying to make you go away, kept trying to let you go, and you wouldn't have it, would you? You always came back."

I froze—_it wasn't supposed to be like this_—took a step back, shook my head—_this wasn't right_—put up a hand to stop him from coming closer—_it wasn't supposed to happen this way_.

"What is so wrong with me that—that no one, and I mean no one, can ever love me for a reason that _isn't_ my fucking…my fucking _dependability_?" I burst out, angry, so angry, I couldn't think, but I was hurt, too, the pain was incoherent, or maybe I was, what did it matter anymore?

"I want to be _more_ that the girl that just happens to always be there," I went on, tears beginning to fall slowly, so slowly, down my face, so slowly I barely noticed them. "I want you to fall, hopelessly, desperately—I want…I want it to be about me, not about how convenient I am. I want you to love me because you can't possibly…you can't possibly _not_. I want you to be as helpless as I am. How is it fair if you're not? How?"

I was babbling, senselessly, and he was watching me, wordlessly, and I was aware, somehow, that I should be mortified, humiliated—I had stripped myself of any and all artifice, I was exposed, finally, and—and he wasn't saying anything.

He didn't even try to stop me when I started to walk away; but maybe that was his answer.

OOO


	21. XXI

**The Science of It All**

_By: Provocative Envy_

OOO

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

When I was eighteen, I discovered magic.

Oh, I'd thought, for seven years, that casting spells and memorizing potions and watching portraits talk—I'd thought that was magic, hadn't I? I'd thought that having a wand—a seemingly inanimate object, nothing more than a slender slab of wood—bound to me, only me; I'd thought that was magic. I'd thought that a castle—a whole castle, huge and medieval and very, very real—being able to hide itself from the rest of the world, make itself unreachable…I'd thought that was magic, too.

And then I'd kissed Draco Malfoy, and I knew then that my whole life, I'd been wrong about everything.

It was indefinable, inexplicable, and I couldn't begin to try and understand what made him special. He was petty and mean, in possession of hidden depths but unwilling to succumb to them. He made me breathless, weak—he made me nervous and scared, desperate and cloying, utterly without convictions, standards.

And yet—and yet, there was something more there, too, something deeper that made me feel like a magnet without its polarity; I was directionless, and I needed him, and he had to know that.

Except…he _did_.

He did know, and it didn't seem to make any difference to him at all.

I'd thought, in that naïve, idealistic way young girls tend to think about things, that he would realize he'd made a mistake, chase after me (metaphorically, of course), and we'd live happily ever after. I'd envisioned the scene a hundred times, a thousand times, had the beginning and the middle and the end planned perfectly; all he had to do was approach me, apologize—it was a foregone conclusion that I'd accept, wasn't it?

But he didn't approach me and apologize. He barely looked at me, in fact—his indifference couldn't have been more markedly clear, and yet…I couldn't bring myself to believe it. After everything we'd said, and done, and been through, how was it possible that he remained so unaffected? How was it possible that he didn't care?

OOO

I heard his footsteps, recognized their weight, and froze, my chin coming to rest on my knees as my eyes grew wide.

He sat down next to me—close, so close—and I focused on the sound of the grass crunching beneath him, trying hard to ignore the heat resonating from his thigh as it grazed my own.

He swallowed before speaking:

"I'm sorry."

A silence filled with shock and joy and doubt followed his pronouncement. I wanted very badly to believe him, but I…didn't.

"Are you?" I asked politely, disinterest flooding my tone.

"Well—yes, actually," he replied, blinking and leaning back slightly.

I shook my head and pursed my lips, suddenly angry.

"No, you're not," I snorted.

"And you're suddenly an expert at divining my feelings?" he countered sarcastically. "Friendly reminder and all that, Granger, but that hasn't really _worked out_ for you in the past, yeah?"

"Quite a bit hasn't, as it turns out. And yet…here you are."

His gaze snapped towards mine.

I stared at him, long and hard, wondering how it was that I'd gotten lost—again, oh yes, again—and I started to wonder, maybe there was something just fundamentally very _wrong_ with me, maybe I lacked the basic, necessary understanding of—of what? Love? Him? Myself?

And there it was, right in front of me, the answer—and it was astonishing.

I wasn't complicated anymore. I knew what it was that I wanted, knew what it was that would make me whole again; Draco, too, was simple—he was running, he was afraid, he was a cliché. It was easy to figure out.

Love, though—love wasn't about breathless, meaningless endearments. Love had nothing to do with dramatic tumbles in front of the lake, with slippery limbs entangled on top of a soft wool cloak.

"Why—" But I stopped myself.

His nostrils flared as he clenched his jaw.

"Why, what?" he demanded.

I didn't, couldn't, wouldn't answer, because this was It. This was our defining moment, our second, third, fourth, fifth chance—we had run out of time, broken our hourglass, and it was now or never.

And I was furious, because he was throwing it all away.

"Why, what?" I repeated incredulously. "Why do you bother, and why do you pretend, and why are you still _running_ from me? Why do you hide, and act as if I'm invisible, all the time, and why…why are you here now? After everything that's been said, after—after that last night—after…after…"

I trailed off, took a deep breath, wondered why I was trying—still, after everything he'd put me through, after all the ways he'd rejected me, I was still trying.

"Never mind," I snorted, disgusted with myself, trying to focus on my own interminable self-loathing and not the pain of searing disappointment that was burning its way through my chest.

And that was when he stopped me—finally, he stopped me, and he looked serious, but more importantly, he looked terrified and bewildered and—he looked…sincere.

"I bother because…you haven't given up on me, and I pretend because I didn't know a place—a _person_—existed that I didn't have to pretend _to_. And I'm running because you scare me, you and your—your _smile_, and your eyes, and the way you seem to be so certain of something that I'm not sure I'm ready for.

"And I hide because that's what I'm good at, and I act like you're invisible because if I didn't…all I would be able to see is _you_, all I would be left with…is _you_—and I'm here now because—because my world wasn't spinning before you entered it, and because you changed _everything_, you did, and…"

My heart pounded and pounded and pounded—I couldn't stop watching his lips move, couldn't quite wrap my mind around the words pouring out of his mouth and everything they meant, everything they were going to mean—

"Shh," I whispered, putting my hand out.

"I love you," he said.

My breathing was shallow, soft, uneven—and perfection existed, it had to, and science was wrong, because this—this moment—it was beautiful.

"I know you do." Finally. "And that's why this is perfect."

OOO


End file.
